Who lost his rating, mates, indeed, O,
At last Spithead Review.
Our eighty-tonner was a beauty—
All flaws, like pewter soft:
Tom fired it—for it was his duty—
And now he’s gone aloft.
“True to the core,” was poor Tom’s motto:
He swore he’d fire the gun,
His mates hung round and begged him not to,
His Poll cried “Tom, ha’ done!”