Indeed

Who gives anything to poor Tom?
whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and
through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er
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. There could I have
him now, and there, and there again, and there.
Storm still.