OBSERVING some time past in the Hampshire Gazette, a remarkable publication to
which the author had the vanity, or rather madness to sign his proper name, Thomas
Grover: it brought to my mind and old song, which with a little addition be pleased
I'm old mad Tom; behold me!
My wits are quite unfram'd
I'm mad I'm sure, and past all cure,
And no hopes of being reclaim'd.
I'll climb the snowy mountain,
And there confront the weather;
I'll pluck the rainbow from the sky,
And stick both ends together.
I'll mount the primum mob, lo!
And there I'll fright the gypsies,
I'll play at bowls with sun and moon,
And shade them in eclipses.
I prentice was to Vulcan,
And serv'd my master faithful,
In framing tools for Shays and fools;
But all will prove ungrateful.
I'll break the Constitution,
Change customs times and laws;
Push Judges from the bench,
Nor let them know the cause:
With pointed swords and guns,
And bayonets at their breast,
From boys with fifes and drums:
Their laws are all a jest!
I'll drive from their old seat
The powers legislative,
And else where they must meet,
When e'er I call or drive.
O else the eastern hills
I'll rend from their foundation,
With rocks and woods and tills,
And hurl them on this nation.
This is my lot I've swore
Sin!? to increase my fame,
Mad Tom's my proper name.