Tom was a man of thousands! he
Would ne'er complain nor frown,
Though high and low the wind and sea
Might toss him up and down.
Amid the waters dark and deep,
He had the happy art,
When all around was storm, to keep
Fair weather in his heart.
Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,
He'd always cast about,
And find within he'd calm enough
To stand the storms without.
"For nought," said Tom, "is ever gained
By sighs for what we lack;
Nor can it mend a vessel strained,
To let our temper crack.
"And sure I am, the worst of storms,
That any man should dread,
Is that which in the bosom forms,
And musters to the head."
Serene, and ever self-possessed,
His mess-mates he would cheer,
And often put their fears to rest,
When dangers gathered near.
If on the rocks the ship was cast,
And surges swept the deck,
Tom Tar was ever found the last
Who would forsake the wreck.
And when his only hat and shoes
The waters plucked from him,
Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,
Could he keep up and swim!
Then through the billows, foam, and spray,
That rose on every hand,
He'd, somehow, always find a way
Of getting safe to land.
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