To Tom

Thou that dost thy Christmas keep
Lonesome on the torrid deep,
But in thy "Meteor— proudly sweep
O'er the waves that vainly comb—
Of thee we think,
To thee we drink,
And drain the glass, my gallant Tom!

Thou that, duty-led, dost roam
Far from thy shepherd-brother's home—
Shearer of the ocean-foam!
To whom one Christmas may not come,—
Of thee I think
Till on its brink
The glass shows tears, beloved Tom!