For Tom fell in, and could not be
For ever after found,
For in the blood and batter he
Was strangely lost and drownd.

Where searching long, but all in vaine,
His mother after that
Into a pudding thrust her sonne,
Instead of minced fat.

Which pudding of the largest size
Into the kettle throwne,
Made all the rest to fly thereout,
As with a whirle-wind blowne.

For so it tumbled up and downe,
Within the liquor there,
As if the devill had been boiled;
Such was his mothers feare,

That up she took the pudding strait.
And gave it at the door
Unto a tinker, which from thence
In his blacke budget bore.

From which Tom Thumbe got loose at last
And home return'd againe:
Where he from following dangers long
In safety did remaine.