On Great Tom of Christ-Church

Be dumb, ye infant-chimes, thump not your mettle,That ne’re out-ring a tinker and his kettle;Cease, all you petty larums; for, to-dayIs young Tom’s resurrection from the clay:And know, when Tom rings out his knells,The best of you will be but dinner-bells.Old Tom’s grown young again, the fiery caveIs now his cradle, that was erst his grave:He grew up quickly from his mother earth,For, all you see was but an hours birth;Look on him well, my life I dare engage,You ne’re saw prettier baby of his age.Some take his measure by the rule, some byThe Jacobs-staff take his profundity,And some his altitude; but some do swearYoung Tom’s not like the Old: But, Tom, ne’re fearThe critical geometricians line,If thou as loud as e’re thou did ring’st nine.Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground,But straight Saint Maries tenor lost his sound.O how this may-poles heart did swellWith full main sides of joy, when that crackt bellChoakt with annoy, and ’s admiration,Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation.Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o’reWhat he ne’re saw in many years before;But when he saw the old foundation,With some like hope of preparation,He burst with grief; and lest he should not haveDue pomp, he’s his own bell-man to the grave:And that there might of him be still some mention,He carried to his grave a new invention.They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins,And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins;But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by heaven,He ne’re set such a loaf into the oven.And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker;Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride,When thou this motto shalt have on thy side:“Great world! one Alexander conquer’d thee,And two as mighty men scarce conquer’d me.”Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn,Though hang’d, drawn, quarter’d, till they did thee burn:Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry,Since thou was martyr’d for the Churches glory;But for thy meritorious suffering,Thou shortly shalt to heaven in a string:And though we griev’d to see thee thump’d and bang’d,We’ll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang’d.

When too much zeal doth fire devotion,Love is not love, but superstition:Even so in civil duties, when we comeToo oft, we are not kind, but troublesome.Yet as the first is not idolatry,So is the last but grieved industry:And such was mine, whose strife to honour youBy overplus, hath rob’d you of your due.

Farewell rewards and Faeries,Good houswives now may say,For now foule slutts in dariesDoe fare as well as they.And though they sweepe theyr hearths no lessThen maydes were wont to doe,Yet who of late for cleaneliness,Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbies,The Faries lost command;They did but change priests babies,But some have changd your land:And all your children sprung from thenceAre now growne Puritanes;Who live as changelings ever sinceFor love of your demaines.

At morning and at evening bothYou merry were and glad,So little care of sleepe or slothThese prettie ladies had;When Tom came home from labour,Or Ciss to milking rose,Then merrily merrily went theyre tabor,And nimbly went theyre toes.

Wittness those rings and roundelayesOf theirs, which yet remaine,Were footed in queene Maries dayesOn many a grassy playne;But since of late, Elizabeth,And later, James came in,They never daunc’d on any heathAs when the time hath bin.

By which wee note the FariesWere of the old profession;Theyre songs were Ave Maryes;Theyre daunces were procession:But now, alas! they all are dead,Or gone beyond the seas;Or farther for religion fled,Or elce they take theyre ease.

A tell-tale in theyre companyThey never could endure,And whoe so kept not secretlyTheyre mirth was punisht sure;It was a just and christian deedTo pinch such blacke and blew:O how the common welth doth needSuch justices as you!

Now they have left our quartersA register they have,Who looketh to theyre charters,A man both wise and grave;An hundred of theyre merry prancksBy one that I could nameAre kept in store, conn twenty thanksTo William for the same.

I marvell who his cloake would turneWhen Pucke had led him round,Or where those walking-fires would burne,Where Cureton would be found;How Broker would appeare to be,For whom this age doth mourne;But that theyre spiritts live in thee,In thee, old William Chourne.

To William Chourne of Stafford shireGive laud and prayses due,Who every meale can mend your cheareWith tales both old and true:To William all give audience,And pray yee for his noddle,For all the Faries evidenceWere lost, if that were addle.