Tommy Thompson

All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,
Soft as the sighs of morning--
All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,
Your native hills adorning--
Where genius bids her rays descend
O'er bosoms deep and lonesome--
Let every heart and hand respond
The name of Tommy Thompson.

CHORUS.

His spirit now is soaring bright,
And leaves us dark and dolesome;
O luckless was the fatal night
That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyric harp was all his own,
Each mystic art combining--
Which Envy, with unbending frown,
Might hear with unrepining.
The sweetest flower in summer blown,
Was not more blithe and joysome,
Than was the matchless, merry tone,
Which died with Tommy Thompson.
His spirit, &c.