Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.
A second friend we have, whose care and zeal
But few can equal - few indeed can feel;
He lived a life obscure, and profits made
In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.
His brother, master of a hoy, he loved
So well, that he the calling disapproved:
“Alas! poor Tom!” the landman oft would sigh
When the gale freshen’d and the waves ran high;
And when they parted, with a tear he’d say,