While The Billy BoilsSearchHere Thompson lies—good worthy man—Come, gentle reader, nearer;He's now as quiet as a lambThough once he was a shearer.
Though many sheep in life he shore,He's now beyond retrieving!He's sheered off to that other shoreWhich surely there's no leaving.
Though he o'er ewes and wethers tooWas often bent, I'm thinkingRough weather o'er him bends the yew—He killed himself with drinking.
No more in shed, or yard, or hutWill 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 rewardHis 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 flooredBy Death, that mighty reaper.