Of whom to be reveng'd, he tooke
(In mirth and pleasant game)
Black pots, and glasses, which he hung
Upon a bright sunne-beam.
The other boyes to doe the like,
In pieces broke them quite;
For which they were most soundly whipt,
Whereat he laught outright.
And so Tom Thumbe restrained was
From these his sports and play,
And by his mother after that
Compel'd at home to stay.
Whereas about a Christmas time,
His father a hog had kil'd,
And Tom would see the puddings made,
For fear they should be spil'd.
He sate upon the pudding-boule,
The candle for to hold;
Of which there is unto this day
A pretty pastime told:
For Tom fell in, and could not be
For ever after found,
For in the blood and batter he
Was strangely lost and drownd.
Where searching long, but all in vaine,
His mother after that
Into a pudding thrust her sonne,
Instead of minced fat.
Which pudding of the largest size
Into the kettle throwne,
Made all the rest to fly thereout,
As with a whirle-wind blowne.
For so it tumbled up and downe,
Within the liquor there,
As if the devill had been boiled;
Such was his mothers feare,
That up she took the pudding strait.
And gave it at the door
Unto a tinker, which from thence
In his blacke budget bore.