Here Thompson lies—good worthy man—

Come, gentle reader, nearer;

He's now as quiet as a lamb

Though once he was a shearer.

Though many sheep in life he shore,

He's now beyond retrieving!

He's sheered off to that other shore

Which surely there's no leaving.

Though he o'er ewes and wethers too

Was often bent, I'm thinking

Rough weather o'er him bends the yew—

He killed himself with drinking.

No more in shed, or yard, or hut

Will Thompson be appearing!

On wings of down his soul flew up—

He's gone where there's no shearing.

He often handled "Ward and Payne's,"*

For he was often shearing!

Alas! the pains of death reward

His everlasting beering.

And from his fingers dropped the shears,

For nature's debt was pressing;

Death nailed his body for arrears—

His spirit effervescing.

Though at his jokes we often roared,

He's now a soundish sleeper!

His crop of chaff at length is floored

By Death, that mighty reaper.