Poor Tom

There's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
In his early day to be pluck'd away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray
Beamed out on the road before him.
Poor Tom!

All the joy that love and affection sheds,
Seemed to fling golden hope around him,
And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads
Alike to their wishes found him.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
Where the low-toned winds are creeping,
As if to bewail, so sad a tale,
While the eyes of the night are weeping.
Poor Tom!

Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone,
Now I love, though I used to fear it;
And I linger oft mid its tombs alone,
For a strange charm draws me near it.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
We were early friends — oh, time still tends
All the links of our love to sever!
And alas! time breaks, but never mends,
The chain that it snaps forever!
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In the old churchyard we have wandered oft,
Lost in gentle and friendly musing;
And his eye was light, and his words were soft,
Soul with soul, as we roved, infusing.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
And we wonder'd then, if, when we were men,
Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother;
But alas! again — we dreamed not when
Death should tear us from each other.
Poor Tom!

On the very spot where the stone now stands,
We have sat in the shade of the willow,
With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands,
And this breast has been his pillow.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old,
And his place may be filled by others;
But he still lives here with a firmer hold,
For our souls were twined like brothers.
Poor Tom!

There's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
In his early day to be plucked away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray
Beamed out on the road before him.
Poor Tom!