I reckon that ye never knew,
That dandy slugger, Tom Carew,
He had a touch as light an’ free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there was n't much
To jestify another touch.
O, what a Sunday-school it was
To watch him puttin’ up his paws
An’ roominate upon their heft —
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style — that's all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure —
He's dead — which make his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p'int in his career,
Which is to say — afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers’ tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislator; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke —
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An’ once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come — no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s'pose it ought n't to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ai n't fit to know;
But, if you think it's actin’ white
To tell it — Thomas throwed a fight!