Transcribed from the nineteenth century J. and C. Evans edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

                      [Picture: Public domain cover]





                                   THE
                             _LIFE AND DEATH_
                                    OF
                              TOM CARELESS:


                            TO WHICH IS ADDED,

               _The History of Will Worthy & Nancy Wilmot_;

                                  GIVING

  An Account of the sudden Death of Nancy Wilmot, as she was
  dancing with Will Worthy on the Green, on the evening of
  the day they were Married; the serious reflections made by
  Will on that awful event, and the happy consequences that
  followed.

[Picture: Graphic of a young boy running after an older boy with a basket
                               on his head]

                                 LONDON:
              Printed and sold by J. and C. Evans Long lane.

                             PRICE ONE PENNY.




TOM CARELESS,


   GOOD people all I pray give ear
      Unto the tale I tell;
   ’Tis form’d to gratify your mind,
      And to instruct you well.

   To caution men of riper years,
      And to admonish youth;
   Fiction may fill th’ improving page,
      And use the voice of truth.

   Tom Careless was a merry lad;
      (And who will mirth despise?)
   But he like many other wits,
      More merry was than wise.

   Tom was a working carpenter,
      Yet while he plied his trade,
   His tongue mov’d faster than his hands,
      And less was done than said.

   He told his tale, he crack’d his joke,
      He was a perfect droll;
   And of each jovial drinking set,
      Was both the life and soul.

   On such a character as this,
      Some did with envy gaze;
   While others wiser, saw much more
      To pity than to praise.

   For Tom with all his merriment,
      That made such mighty rout,
   Had taken vice and folly in,
      And quite shut wisdom out.

   He neither look’d, nor car’d, beyond
      The present passing hour!
   Alas! now see his sky o’ercast,
      And storms begin to lour.

   A burning fever seiz’d his frame!
      Look how he pants for breath;
   And in his vitals feels transfixt
      Th’ envenomed dart of death.

   He feels and shudders at the stroke,
      He turns but keeps his pain;
   He looks with eager eyes for help,
      But human help is vain.

   Now conscience from her slumber wakes,
      And with a dismal cry,
   Proclaims the vices of his life,
      And summons him to die.

   To die! to leave the present world,
      To yield his vital breath!
   To close his eyes on life, and tread
      The dark, dark vale of death!

   To see th’ uplifted stroke that must
      His soul and body sever!
   And then to lose the light of life
      For ever and for ever!

   ’Twas more than human strength could bear
      The agonizing strife,
   Sunk his distracted spirits down
      Close to the verge of life.

   Then his fellow-workmen came,
      With Careless to condole;
   Who talk’d of former scenes of mirth,
      To cheer his troubl’d soul.

   But, ah! when conscience sorely smarts—
      Whose spirit can endure?
   When GOD inflicts the mighty wound—
      What mortal hand can cure?

   Outstretch’d, his flesh all trembling lies,
      He heaves a mournful sigh;
   Attempts to raise his aching head,
      And ope’ his languid eye.

   On the companions of his life,
      He casts a dismal look;
   And, lab’ring with conflicting thoughts,
      Thus the sad silence broke:—

   “Ah! ye do well to see a wretch,
      Whose peace and health are fled;
   Ye knew him once in festive scenes,
      Now on his dying bed.

   But, O, for ever from my mind
      Hide ev’ry guilty joy;
   Oor they’ve polluted all my life,
      And will my soul destroy.

   In sickness, pain, decay, and death,
      What agonies ye bring!
   All pointed with the envenom’d barb,
      Of sin’s eternal sting.

   —But have ye no sweet hope to give?
      No comfort to supply?
   Must I still languish and despair,
      And then—ah! must I die?

   How can my naked spirit stand
      Before a righteous GOD?
   Who, who, shall hide me from his eye,
      Or shield me from his rod?

   O what a load of guilt I feel!
      My anguish who can tell?
   My sins will shut me out of heav’n,
      And sink me down to hell.

   By all the mis’ries which I feel,
      By all the wrath I dread;
   By heav’ns just veng’ance soon to fall
      On my devoted head;

   I charge you to forsake your sins,
      And to the SAVIOUR fly:
   O may he bless you while you live,
      And save you when you die.

   But as for me, can mercy come,
      Call’d for with parting breath?”—
   He said—and straight his quiv’ring lips,
      For ever clos’d in death!




THE
_History of Will Worthy and Nancy Wilmot_.


   IN vain the living soul may strive
      For happiness below;
   This world no solid joy can give,
      Nor lasting peace bestow.

   _Will Worthy_ was a sprightly lad
      As ever trod the mead;
   He thought no cares could make him sad,
      While pleasure took the lead.

   Dex’trous at all the rustic games,
      He oft his strength display’d,
   Now the swift race his breast inflames,
      By emulation sway’d.

   At every country fair and wake,
      _Will_ was the wonder there:
   Fair females crowded for his sake,
      And strove his smiles to share.

   Sweet Nancy Wilmot of the vale,
      Won _William’s_ roving heart;
   To her he told love’s tender tale,
      Now nothing could them part.

   To church they went, the knot was tied,
      The day was spent in glee;
   Inviting all to them allied,
      To join their jollity.

   The self-same eve, when on the green,
      _Will_ danc’d with Nance his bride;
   Lo! what a sad reverse of scene,
      She fainted—droop’d—and died!!!

   Dismay and horror seiz’d each soul,
      When this sad news was known,
   For her the passing-bell did toll,
      ETERNITY her home.

   Like the weak grass, or tender flow’r,
      Or vapour’s empty breath;
   Sweet Nancy wither’d in an hour,
      Cut down by sudden death.

   _William_ bewail’d her early fate,
      A prey to woe and grief;
   Pensive, forlorn, and wan he sat,
      And would have no relief.

   The question “if her soul was safe?”
      Gave poignancy to woe;
   Should hell have follow’d sudden death,
      “Would she not thither go?”

   From brooding on _her_ doubtful lot,
      Now fix’d for ever sure;
   His mind now turn’d its every thought,
      To _his_ sick soul and cure.

   “How shall I flee from wrath to come,
      Where hide my guilty head?
   Should I next go to my long home,
      Where shall I be?” he said.

   He bade adieu to sinful joy,
      And trac’d the moral page;
   The fine clad sentiment could cloy,
      But not his grief assuage.

   No, he had tried all these in vain,
      All “empty, void, and waste;”
   They serv’d but to increase his pain,
      Involving ruin fast.

   Thus, baffled, wearied, and distress’d,
      He did a Bible see;
   There found a prayer for one oppress’d,
      “LORD, undertake for me.”

   To church on Sundays he had been,
      As others come and go;
   But ne’er by faith had JESUS seen,
      Or heard what CHRIST could do.

   Until, with circumcised ear,
      He when at church one day,
   Found mercy to his soul draw near,
      Which to _his_ heart did say:

   “Come unto me, thou weary soul,
      Laden with num’rous sins;
   No case so bad that can controul
      My grace where it begins.

   Why so disquieted art thou,
      With sins, and fears, and care?
   Lo th’ accepted time is now,
      Tho’ lost, do not despair.

   Lost in yourself, in CHRIST there’s hope,
      And never till you’re lost,
   Relinquish ev’ry other prop,
      And then you’ll prize him most.

   ’Twas such he came to seek and save,
      And could he come in vain?
   And if no other hope you have,
      You need no more complain.”

   The sermon ended, _Will_ went home,
      Stepp’d up and lock’d his door;
   Fell on his knees before GOD’S throne,
      And mercy did implore.

   Mercy he found, and after liv’d
      Daily _on_ CHRIST by faith;
   _To_ Jesus liv’d while he surviv’d,
      Triumphant was in death.

                                  FINIS.

                                * * * * *

          London; Printed and sold by J. and C. Evans Long lane