"Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul Fiend hath led through fire and through flame, Through ford and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; That hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters In his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him Proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over Four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a Traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom's a-cold. O! do De, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, Star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some Charity, whom the foul fiend vexes."