On Great Tom of Christ-Church

Bee dum, you infant chimes; thump not the mettle
That nere outrunge a tinker and his kettle;
Cease, all you petty larums; for to-day
Is yonge Toms resurrection from the clay.
And know, when Tom shall ringe his loudest knelles,
The bigst of you'le be thought but dinner bells.

Old Tom's growne yonge againe: the fiery cave
Is now his cradle that was erst his grave.
Hee grewe upp quickly from his mother earth,
For all you see is not an howres birth.
Looke on him well: my life I dare engage
You nere saw preteyer babie of his age.
Some take his measure by the rule; some by
The Jacobs staffe take his profunditie,
And some his altitude; some bouldly sweare
Yonge Tom's not like the olde; But, Tom, nere feare
The Criticke Geometritian's lyne
If thou as loude as ere thou didst ringe nyne.

Tom did noe sooner peepe from under ground
But straight St Maries Tenor lost his sounde.
Oh how his maypole-founders heart did swell
With full-moone tydes of ioy when that crackt bell,
Choaked with envie, and his admiration,
Runge like a quart pott to the congregation.

Myles, what's the matter? belles thus out of square?
I hope St Maryes hall won't longe forbeare
Your cockscombe-pate: the clocke hanges dumbe in towre
And knowes not that foure quarters makes an howre.
Now Brontes joyes ringe out: the churlish cur
Nere laughes aloude till greate belles catch the mur.

This puny bell is proud and hopes noe other,
But that in time he shalbe greate Tom's brother.
Thou'rt wise if this thou wishest; bee it soe,
Let one henn hatch you both; for thus much know,
He that can cast great Christchurch Tom soe well
Can easily cast St Maryes greatest bell.

Rejoyce with Christ Church, looke higher, Oseny,
Of Gyante belles the famous treasury.
The base vast thundringe clocke of Westminster,
Great Tom of Lincolne, and huge Excester,
Are but Toms eldest brothers, and perchance
Hee may call cozen with the bell of France.

Nere greive, old Oseny, at thy heavy fall.
Thy reliques build thee up againe. They all
Florish to thy great glory; Their sole fame
When thou art not will keepe great Osenys name.
This Tom was infant of thy mightie steeple:
Yet hee is Lord controuler of a people.

Tom lately went his progresse and lookd ore
What hee nere saw in many yeares before;
But when hee saw the old foundation
And little hope of reparation,
Hee burst with griefe, and, lest hee should not have
Due pompe, hee's his owne bellman to the grave.

And that there might of Tom bee still strange mention
Hee caried to the grave a new invention:
They drew his brownebread face on pretty ginnes
And made him stalke upon two rowlinge-pinnes;
But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice, by heaven,
He nere set such a loafe into the oven.

But Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,
As much as hee did Sander Hill the baker;
Therfore, loude thunderinge Tom, be this thy pride,
When thou this motto shalt have on thy side:
Great world, one Alexander conquer'd thee;
But two as mightie men scarce conquered mee.
Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turne,
Though hang'd, drawne, quarter'd, till they made thee burn:
Yet not for this nor tenn times more be sory,
Synce thou wast martyred for the Churches glorie.
But for thy meritorious sufferinge
Thou shortly shalt to heaven goe in a string,
And though we greive[d] when thou wert thumpt and bang'd,
Wee all be glad, great Tom, to see thee hanged.