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Title: Songs of the Sea and Lays of the Land Author: Charles Godfrey Leland Release Date: December 11, 2015 [EBook #50666] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE SEA, LAYS OF THE LAND *** Produced by Larry Harrison, Cindy Beyer, Ross Cooling and the online Project Gutenberg team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net with images provided by The Internet Archives-US S O N G S O F T H E S E A AND L AY S O F T H E L A N D SONGS OF THE SEA AND LAYS OF THE LAND BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1895 PREFACE Among the songs in this collection are the Brand New Ballads already known more or less to the public, several of them having an American newspaper circulation, while a few are given at times in public readings; since I have learned, for example, that “In Nevada” was one of the stock-pieces of Mr. Clifford Harrison. They now reappear amended and with additions. In the “Songs of the Sea” the reader will not fail to observe that three or four, such as the “Mermaid” and “Time for Us to Go,” are not by me at all. They are sailors’ songs of the olden time, introduced as suggestions for other lyrics, as I have indeed declared in the text, and also to aid in the main purpose or idea which inspires the whole collection—they being in this respect like stones from more ancient edifices built into new houses, as was the wont of men in the middle age. This main purpose was to set forth with scrupulous care, as of a statue photographed from many sides, the mariner of the sailing—not steaming—ship, who is now rapidly passing away, although some tens of thousands of the species are still to be found in the remoter routes of travel. This kind of man should be interesting, because he is almost the only one who is drawn into his calling by a desire to rove about the world and lead an adventurous, reckless, manly life. Into this life entered, I may say, as “vitalising elements,” “shipwrecks and disasters of the sea,” the extremes of discipline and dissipation, as well as those of cynical scepticism and superstition, the seeing, like Ulysses, cities and men, and the consciousness, so clear to undeveloped minds and smaller natures, of belonging to a “peculiar” class. This I have borne in mind most earnestly, and those who perceive it will also find that in this spirit the following notes and sketches in song illustrate, I trust accurately, a consistent ideal text, and that all the songs unite to form a single poem. As for the many scraps, “chanties,” choruses, sayings, similes, and bits of sea-lore worked up into the lyrics here and there, I make no attempt whatever to indicate what is borrowed; all that I can say of it is, that if the mere gathering the stones is all the merit of making a mosaic picture (as many seem to think), then I could claim little merit for originality. But as this is not a folk-lore book, in which a writer is held sternly accountable “to give authority for every word,” and as a mass of notes would have simply defeated the whole aim of the book, I have preferred making myself amenable to the charge of plagiarism to boring my reader—even as an Italian devoted servant of whom I once heard, preferred to be carried off by the police, on the charge of stealing oranges, rather than awaken and disturb his master who could have explained the matter. I can, however, truly say that as regards ideas, incidents, tales, turns of speech and idioms, current sayings, and so on, from poetry down to vulgarity, I have literally taken so much from sailors themselves that the work, if analysed, would be a curiosity of collocation, like the poems made up entirely of proverbs, or the Sermon of Texts. Here I would mention my obligation to more than one ancient mariner, and specially to my old friend, Captain Stead, now so long a dweller at the Langham Hotel, for advising about, and revising, these ballads. These friends having carefully studied the work and corrected or modelled its every sentence into ship-shape, have been kind enough to assure me that it would hold its own in the forecastle, as a real thing, and not an imitation; which saying uttered in sooth and truth especially by a friend of forty years’ experience in sailing-vessels, mostly “before the war,” was to me greatly encouraging. What I have above written of the “Songs of the Sea” is equally true of the other ballads in this volume. They also form a series of eccentric pictures of American life after the war, brought together, not like chance pictures in a scrap-book, but as I before said, to carry out one idea in reference to a special subject. In this spirit and to this end were they written, from current prose tales. Nor have I ever forgotten that there is in them for the future a kind of folk-lore which is never so apparent to those who live in it as to those who inherit it. When I was a small boy, there was in my aunt’s kitchen in Milford, Massachusetts, a cheese-knife, which had no special interest to anybody save to me, because it had been the very sword carried by General Eaton in his famous march over the Desert to attack Algiers. Nowadays it would be greatly prized. So it is sometimes worth while to think of these things which we now possess, and how rapidly they are hastening to become curiosities—I myself having lived to see every object familiar to me in youth become bric-à-brac. In the last age, everything not in the newest fashion was despised—in this there is a highly-cultured class just beginning to show itself beyond the Realists and disciples of Mental-analytical Chemistry, who look alternately at the Past and Future, Even as Janus on the Capitol Saw all that was or ever yet would be. There may be a few among the jealous guardians or spokes around the Hub who may demand by what right I invade the sacred precincts of Boston, and sing about its past. Well, my boyhood was half passed in Boston or near it; there the romance of sailor life, which was marvellous in those times, imbued me, and then and there in common with my mates I devoured the Mariners’ Chronicle, Shipwrecks and Disasters of the Sea, Lives of the Buccaneers, and listened with v vi vii viii avidity to the tales of those who had been on the briny deep. Nearly all my first-cousins had at one time or other run away and gone to sea or taken long voyages. Among the former were Benjamin Stimson, the “S” of Two Years Before the Mast; Charles Leland, who afterwards grew like Samuel Jackson to the height of seven feet; and Samuel Godfrey. From these and many more I learned an incredible number of sea stories and songs, none of which I ever forgot, being to an extraordinary degree accustomed to keep repeating to myself these “stranger legends of the olden time.” Hence it comes that I have in my mind such vivid memories of the old North End of Boston. I would say in conclusion what will be apparent enough to many, that these Ballads make no great pretence to be poetry. They consist of incidents or small “motives” cast into rhyme or measure, as the easiest method of giving them a certain value, just as a tune brings out a song. Most rhymers are criticised more or less severely for pretending to be poets; all that I can claim for this volume is, that it is a kind of collection of curiosities which, as they have seemed to me to be worth remembering, will, I trust, be regarded by others as worth reading. Charles Godfrey Leland. Florence, 1894. CONTENTS SONGS OF THE SEA PAGE The Old Tavern 1 El Capitan General 5 Uncle Sam 9 Mother Carey 13 The Bird Crew 17 Davy Jones 19 The Devil’s Pot 21 One, Two, Three 24 La Bella Strega 27 The Beautiful Witch 31 The Witch’s Box 35 The Mermaid 41 The Merman 43 The Wizard Finn 51 Charley Buff 55 Bold Robin Rover 59 Time for Us to Go 64 Rolling Over 67 The Musquito 71 Stand from Under! 73 Near Havanna 77 The Three Dead Men 80 The Lady-Sailor 82 The Spanish Sailor’s Song 84 The Lover to the Sailor 86 Green Corn and Potatoes 87 The Sailor’s Farewell 90 Mackerel Signs 94 True Blue 96 The Story of Samuel Jackson 99 The Dandy Ship 104 Jack of all Trades 107 The Girl Wind 110 LAYS OF THE LAND ix x The Rise and Fall of Gloryville 115 In the Wrong Box 123 Zion Jersey Boggs 130 The Ballad of the Green Old Man 142 Carrying Coals 148 Carey, of Carson 150 Josephi in Benicia 156 The Story of a Lie 161 The Legend of Saint Anthony 164 A Russian Lyric 169 Melodramnation 173 A Tale of Idaho 177 A Californian Romance 182 The Story of Mr. Scroper, Architect 187 That Interestin’ Boy 190 Miss Miles, the Telegraph Girl 191 An American Cock-Tale 198 Judge Wyman 207 In Nevada 213 The Philanthropic Club 223 The Coloured Fortune-Hunter 227 Penn 228 Ballad of the Foxes 232 Est Modus in Rebus 237 The Masher 243 Arizona John 249 The Ballad of Charity 252 Multum in Parvo 256 The Organist of Bergamo 258 The Goth and the Pigeon 268 Reflections in a Printing-Office 275 APPENDIX 277 S O N G S O F T H E S E A xiii xiv I saw three sailors synging, hey howe! Upon yon lea-land hey! I hearde three mariners rynging, rumbelowe: Upon yon sea strand gaye. Synge hey howe, rumbelowe, Row the boat, Norman, rowe! Percy’s Relics. THE OLD TAVERN In the North End of Boston, long ago; Although ’tis yet within my memory; There were of gabled houses many a row, With overhanging storeys two or three, And many with half-doors over whose end Leaning upon her elbows, the good-wife At eventide conversed with many a friend Of all the little chances of their life; Small ripples in a stream which ran full slow In the North End of Boston, long ago. And ’mid these houses was a Hostelrie Frequented by the people of the sea, Known as the Boy and Barrel, from its sign: A jolly urchin on a cask of wine Bearing the words which puzzled every eye— Orbus In Tactu Mainet[1] Heaven knows why. Even there a bit of Latin made a show, In the North End of Boston—long ago. And many a sailor, when his cruise was o’er, Bore straight for it soon as he touched the shore: In many a stormy night upon the sea He’d thought upon the Boy—and of the spree He’d have when there, and let all trouble go, In the North End of Boston, long ago. There, like their vessels in a friendly port, Met many mariners of every kind, Spinning strange yarns of many a varied sort, Well sheltered from the ocean and the wind; In a long low dark room they lounged at ease; Strange men there were from many a distant land, And there above the high old chimney-piece Were curiosities from many a strand, Which often made strange tales and memories flow In the North End of Boston, long ago. And there I often sat to hear those tales, From men who’d passed through storm and fight and fire, Of mighty icebergs and stupendous whales, Of shipwrecked crews and of adventures dire, Until the thought came to me on a time, While I was listening to that merry throng, That I would write their stories out in rhyme, And weave into it many a sailor’s song, That men might something of the legends know Of the North End of Boston, long ago. First it was said that Captain Kidd in truth Had revelled in that tavern with his crew, And there it was he lost the Golden Tooth Which brought him treasure, and the gossips knew Moll Pitcher dwelt there in the days of yore, And Peter Rugg had stopped before the door: Tom Walker there did with the Devil go In the North End of Boston, long ago. Nor had I long to wait, for at the word 1 2 3 4 Some one observed that he had seen in Spain A captain hung—which Abner Chapin heard And said, “I too upon the Spanish Main Met with a man well known unto us all, Who nearly hung a Captain General.” He told the tale and I did rhyme it so; In the North End of Boston, long ago. [1] See Appendix. EL CAPITAN GENERAL There was a Captain General who ruled in Vera Cruz, And what we used to hear of him was always evil news; He was a pirate on the sea—a robber on the shore: The Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. There was a Yankee skipper who round about did roam, His name was Stephen Folger and Nantucket was his home, And having gone to Vera Cruz he had been skinned full sore By the Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. But having got away alive, though all his cash was gone, He said, “If there is Vengeance, I will surely try it on! And I do wish I may be damned if I don’t clear the score With Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador!” He shipped a crew of seventy men—well-arméd men were they, And sixty of them in the hold he darkly stowed away, And sailing back to Vera Cruz was sighted from the shore, By the Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. With twenty-five soldados he came on board so pleased And said: “Maldito Yankee—again your ship is seized. How many sailors have you got?” Said Folger, “Ten—no more,” To the Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. “But come into my cabin and take a glass of wine, I do suppose as usual, I’ll have to pay a fine; I have got some old Madeira and we’ll talk the matter o’er— My Capitan Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.” And as over that Madeira the Captain General boozed, It seemed to him as if his head was getting quite confused, For it happened that some morphine had travelled from “the store” To the glass of Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. “What is it makes the vessel roll? What sounds are these I hear? It seems as if the rising waves were beating on my ear!” “Oh it is the breaking of the surf—just that and nothing more, My Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador!” The Governor was in a sleep which muddled all his brains, The seventy men had got his gang and put them all in chains, And when he woke the following day he could not see the shore, For he was out on the blue water—the Don San Salvador. “Now do you see that yard-arm—and understand the thing?” Said Captain Folger, “For all from that yard-arm you shall swing, Or forty thousand dollars you must pay me from your store, My Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.” The Capitano took a pen—the order he did sign, “O Señor Yankee!—but you charge amazing high for wine!” But ’twas not till the draft was paid they let him go ashore, El Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. The greatest sharp some day will find another sharper wit, It always makes the devil laugh to see a biter bit; It takes two Spaniards any day to come a Yankee o’er: Even two like Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador. And when this tale was told, another man Cried out, “I’ll swear ’tis true as true can be, Unto his health we’ll have all round a can! For Captain Folger is well known to me. Now I will sing ‘first lines’ of ‘Uncle Sam,’ And he who can shall add at once a second, I’ll call you one by one—now here I am, And he who balks shall be the loser reckoned, And pay for drinks all round”— 5 6 7 8 “All right,” they roared, “Now then begin, for we are all on board!” UNCLE SAM When there’s rain and shine together, Chorus. Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam is in the weather: Chorus. Yo heave ho! When the sun shines through a fog, Yo heave ho! Uncle Samuel drinks his grog: Yo heave ho! When the blue sky shows in pieces, Yo heave ho! Those are Uncle Samuel’s breeches: Yo heave ho! When a cloud is low and flat, Yo heave ho! That is Uncle Samuel’s hat: Yo heave ho! When the wind is loud and bad, Yo heave ho! Then Old Sam is getting mad: Yo heave ho! When the wind begins to bellow, Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam is in the cellar: Yo heave ho! When the sky is clean and red, Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam is gone to bed: Yo heave ho! When you hear the wind a-roaring, Yo heave ho! That is Uncle Sam a-snoring: Yo heave ho! When you see the lightning spooning, Yo heave ho! Then old Uncle Sam’s harpooning: Yo heave ho! When you hear the wind a-barking, Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam has gone a-sharking: Yo heave ho! When you see a santo-corpus, Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam is arter a porpus: Yo heave ho! When the water gabbles too much, Yo heave ho! Uncle Sam is talking Dutch: Yo heave ho! When the sea hawk’s scream is heard, Yo heave ho! He wants to know if there’s Dutch on board: Yo heave ho! When the wind’s before the rain, Yo heave ho! Soon you can make sail again: Yo heave ho! “Belay that song I say—’tis gettin’ weary:” Cried out a voice, “Let’s change to Mother Carey!” MOTHER CAREY 9 10 11 12 13 With the wind old Mother Carey, Yo ho oh! Churns the sea to make her dairy: Yo ho oh! When you see a storm a-brewin’, Yo ho oh! That is Mother Carey’s doin’: Yo ho oh! When you see Mother Carey’s chickens, Yo ho oh! Then look out to catch the dickens! Yo ho oh! When you hear the icebergs rattle, Yo ho oh! Those are Mother Carey’s cattle: Yo ho oh! When you see them split—a-halving, Yo ho oh! Then Mother Carey’s cows are calving: Yo ho oh! When you see a flying fish, Yo ho oh! Lose no time but make your wish: Yo ho oh! Irish pennons when they’re flying, Yo ho oh! Set old Mother Carey crying: Yo ho oh! When the sea-gulls dip for slush, Yo ho oh! Mother Carey stirs the mush: Yo ho oh! When one sea-gull follows you, Yo ho oh! Mother Carey soon makes it two: Yo ho oh! When the sea-gulls fly by two, Yo ho oh! Soon good luck will come to you: Yo ho oh! When the sea-gulls fly by threes, Yo ho oh! Soon you’ll have a spanking breeze: Yo ho oh! If seven follow you into port, Yo ho oh! There the sailors’ll have good sport: Yo ho oh! When a rope trails in the water, Yo ho oh! That is Mother Carey’s garter: Yo ho oh! When the clouds are red as roses, Yo ho oh! Those are Mother Carey’s posies: Yo ho oh! If you want to win your Mary, Yo ho oh! Throw out a biscuit to Mother Carey: Yo ho oh! And so they would have chantyd all night long, But some one broke it with another song. THE BIRD CREW 14 15 16 17 The Albatross Is the captain and boss, Haul away boys, haul away! The sea-gull queers Are the officeers, Haul away boys, haul away! And the Carey chickens as I guess Is every one an A.B.S., Haul away boys, haul away! “I’ve heard,” said Chapin, “many folk agree, Those birds are souls of sailors lost at sea, And often one around the vessel flies To give us warning ere the storms arise.” “Talkin’ of spirits in the vasty deep,” Said Ezra Bullard, late of Marblehead, “There’s one at least who never goes to sleep, And mighty little good of him is said; His special dispensation is to watch The bottom of the ocean, and to see It don’t fall out—for if it did we catch The very direst kind of misery, For all the water runnin’ through the hole Would leave it dry as you can understand, And from the Arctic to the ’tother pole, ’Twould be one thunderin’ lot of empty land.” And thereupon in his south-wester tones He let us have the song of Davy Jones. DAVY JONES Down in the sea among sand and stones, There lives the old fellow called Davy Jones. When storms come up he sighs and groans, And that is the singing of Davy Jones. His chest is full of dead men’s bones, And that is the locker of Davy Jones. Davy is Welsh you may hear by his tones, For a regular Welsher is Davy Jones. Whenever a fish gets drowned, he moans, So tender-hearted is Davy Jones. Thousands of ships the old man owns, But none go a-sailing for Davy Jones. “Well—since you talk o’ the bottom of the sea,” Said Enoch Doolittle of Salem town, “I know a yarn that beats you full and free, Because, d’ye know, it takes you deeper down, And if you’re taken down—of course you’re beat.” “That’s so,” cried all, “so now your yarn repeat!” “All right,” quoth Doolittle, “I’ll serve it hot, Because, d’ye see, it’s called The Devil’s Pot. But ’fore I dive into the salty brine, Give me a gill of white New England wine! Take one all round to benefit the pub. Now for the bottom of the pickle tub.” THE DEVIL’S POT[2] There’s a place where you see the Atlantic heave Like water boiling hot; Where you come with grief and with joy you leave, And they call it the Devil’s Pot. Now there was a witch in the good old time, And she had such power, they say, Through rocks or stones or sand or lime, She could always make her way. One night on a broom she went with a whirr; 18 19 20 21 The devil he saw her fly, And the devil he fell in love with her As she went sailing by. She flew like the devil to scape away, And the devil so did he, And she jumped from her broom without delay And she dived to the bottom of the sea. And she bored a hole when she got down, And round and round she twirled, And closed it behind as she went on, Till she went straight through the world. And the devil he dived in the water deep, And he made it boil like pitch As he roared and raved with many a leap, But he never could find the witch. And still he stirs it by night and day, And seeks and finds her not; And that is the reason, the sailors say, Why it’s called the Devil’s Pot. “They say that there are witches everywhere,” Said Jones of Chesapeake, “a livin’ free; Some in the rocks, some flyin’ in the air, And some, in course, like fishes in the sea. I’ve often heard strange voices in the night— They wan’t no birds I’ll swer, nor any sitch— One called me once by name; it gim’me fright— And that I’m sartin was a water-witch. One can’t in nat’ral wise account for that, All you can call it is a Mr. E—— But there are witches, I will bet a hat; And so I’ll sing the song of One, Two, Three, Fust drinkin’ all your healths,”—no more he said, But in a good round voice went straight ahead: [2] The Devil’s Pot is a place on the North Atlantic route where, according to sailors, there is always bad weather. ONE, TWO, THREE I saw three witches as the wind blew cold In a red light to the lee; Bold they were and over-bold As they sailed over the sea; Calling for One, Two, Three! Calling for One, Two, Three! And I think I can hear It a-ringing in my ear, A-calling for the One, Two, Three. And clouds came over the sky, And the wind it blew hard and free, And the waves grew bold and over-bold As we sailed over the sea; Howling for One, Two, Three! Howling for their One, Two, Three! Oh I think I can hear It a-ringing in my ear, A-howling for their One, Two, Three! And the storm came roaring on, Such a storm as I never did see, And the storm it was bold and over-bold, And as bad as a storm could be; A-roaring for its One, Two, Three! A-howling for its One, Two, Three! Oh I think I can hear It a-howling in my ear, A-growling for its One, Two, Three! And a wave came over the deck, As big as a wave could be, 22 23 24 25 26 And it took away the captain and the mate and a man: It had got the One, Two, Three! And it went with the One, Two, Three! Oh I think I can hear It a-rolling in my ear, As it went with the One, Two, Three. This being cheered, I said, “Some time ago I made a song in the Italian tongue About a witch and pirate—which for you Shall, if you like, be now in English sung.” “No, give it first,” cried Saltonstall, “by jingo! In its own nateral, Eyetalian lingo; What I don’t know of it ain’t worth a cent; Even to Rome I several times have went, In Naples, too, I’ve had full many a turn And know old Spartivento like a dern; And most of us, I reckon—though we’re Yankee— Can go the Dago, or some lingua frankey. We ain’t so ignorant of what we know; So go ahead, Signor—prestissimo! Ef we don’t catch the sense ’twill be a pity.”— So thus encouraged I began my ditty: LA BELLA STREGA Era una bella strega Che si bagnava alla riva; Vennero i pirati, Lei presero captiva. Il vento era in poppa, Sull’onde la nave ballò, La donna lacrimante Al capitan parlò: “O Signor Capitano! O Capitan’ del mar! Daro cento ducati Se tu mi lasci andar!” “Non prenderò cento ducati, Tu costi molto più, Io te vendrò al Sultano,” Disse il Capitano “Per mille zecchini d’oro Vi stimi troppo giù.” “Non vuoi i cento ducati. Ebben, tu non gli avrai, Ho un’amante amato Non mi abbandona mai.” Essa sedé sul ponte, Principiò a cantar: “Vieni il mio amante!” Da lontano il vento Si mette a mugghiar. Forte e più forte La tempesta ruggio: Gridava il Capitano: “Io credo che il tuo amante E il vento che corre innante, Ovvero il diavolo.” Forte e più forte La procella urlò: “Sono roccie davanti, E il vento vien di dietro, Ben venuto sei tu, mio amante!” La bella donna cantò. “Vattene al tuo amante All’inferno a cantar!” Disse il Capitano, E gettò la donna fuori Della nave nel mar. 26 27 28 29 30 Ma come un gabbiano Sull’onde essa volò: “O mio Capitano! Non sarai appiccato, Ma sarai annegato; Per sempre addio!” “That’s derned good Dago,” cried Jack Saltonstall; “Blamed ef I didn’t understand it all. For the best songs are easiest understood: Now then let’s hear if t’other side’s as good! A song is like a bird—’cos birds do sing— So carve us out the second breast and wing; And with your anthem bid our hearts rejoice:” Encouraged thus I lifted up my voice. THE BEAUTIFUL WITCH A pretty witch was bathing By the beach one summer day; There came a boat with pirates Who carried her away. The ship had a breeze behind her, Over the waves went she! “O Signor Capitano, O Captain of the Sea! I’ll give you a hundred ducats, If you will set me free!” “I will not take a hundred; You’re worth much more, you know: I’ll sell you to the Sultan For a thousand golden sequins: You put yourself far too low.” “You will not take a hundred, Very well then, let them be! But I have a constant lover Who, as you may discover, Will never abandon me.” On the deck, before the rover, The witch began to sing: “Oh come to me, my lover!” And the wind as it stole over Began to howl and ring. Louder and ever louder Became the tempest’s roar, The captain in a passion Thus at the lady swore: “I believe that your windy lover Is the devil and nothing more!” Wilder and ever wilder The tempest raged and rang, “There are rocks ahead, and the wind dead aft, Thank you, my love!” the lady laughed As unto the wind she sang. “Oh go with your cursed lover To inferno to sing for me!” So cried the angry captain, And threw the lady over To sink in the stormy sea. But changing into a sea-gull Over the waves she flew. “O capitain, captain bold,” sang she, “ ’Tis true you’ve missed the gallows tree, But now you’ll drown in the foaming sea, O captain, forever adieu!” “Talkin’ of witches and magicianers,” Cried out Jack Saltonstall of Newbury port, “They are the devil’s own parishioners, And I knew one of a peculiar sort, 30 31 32 33 34 Because he was a sailor—had he been A lawyer, now, it wouldn’t seem so queer: For conjurers ’mong us ain’t often seen, And he was of the kind who ain’t small beer, Possessing cash enough to roll in bliss: However that may be, the story’s this.” THE WITCH’S BOX Once when I went upon a trip Likewise to the Southern sea, We had a man upon the ship And a wonderful man was he. A handsomer man I never did spy, At home or in any port; But there was something in his eye Of a most peculiar sort. And all in Trinidado’s port Was a woman fair and rich, With her my messmate did consort, And I heard she was a witch. Her eyes, like his, had a greenish glare, They seemed to be quite of a level, And the general look of the loving pair Was exactly the look of the devil. Now when it was time to up and lift, And the ship must leave the docks, He came aboard with her parting gift, A brown little wooden box. Now this man had hardly a shirt to his back, When he started on this trip, And the mate declared that such a Jack Was a regular shame to the ship. Then this man he winked a dreadful wink, And said to the mate, “I’ll be floored: But I’ve got more clothes in my box, I think, Than all of the men on board.” Now his box was only one foot square, And what was our surprise When he opened it and pulled out a pair Of shirts before our eyes! Next came a hat and a jacket blue, With trousers of the best, For everything was nice and new, And so on with all the rest. And when he was drest, all spick and span, We observed upon our oaths That we didn’t believe even our old man Had got such a suit of clothes. Twenty-four hours arter, I heard him say, And I thought it was very strange: “I never wear my clothes but a day And now it is time to change. “I make you a gift on ’em fair and plain, With a quid of tobacco to boot.” Sayin’ this he opened his box again, And pulled out another new suit. And the same thing happened the very next day, At about the very same bells, He took off his second suit so gay, And gave it to somebody else. So it happened every day again, Till he’d rigged us all from his store; And such a dandy lot of men Were never in a ship before. Then we never had any scrimmages 35 36 37 38 For fear of spilin’ our slops: We looked like the graven images Before the tailors’ shops. But a man named Knox from Edinboro toun, Always took the thing amiss, And often remarked with a doubtful frown: “There is something eereligious in this!” So one day when our friend had opened his box, Before we could prevent, Up behind him came Mr. Knox And dropped in his New Testament. There came a flash of lightning bright, And an awful thunder’s roar, And the box and the sailor went clean out o’ sight, And we never beheld ’em more. And all to ashes and all to wreck Went our clothes, and we looked forlorn, For there we were standing on the deck As naked as we were born! And this is the lesson short and small, Which we learned from our liberal friend, That the things which cost you nothing at all Never come to any good in the end. And when the laugh at this had died away, Mose Brown of Bristol in the whaling line Said: “Mermaids are the witches of the sea, Which in good looks are really superfine. And on this subject I will give a song, Which I daresay you all already know, But anyway it isn’t very long, Though it was made a hundred years ago, I guess that mermaids were much plentier then; Perhaps they’re scared of steamboats and the swell Which drives the fish as foxes do a hen— So like the steamers I will now propel.” THE MERMAID One Friday morning we set sail[3] It was not far from land, When I espied a fair mermaid, With a comb and a glass in her hand. Chorus. And the raging winds do blow, blow, blow, And the raging winds do blow; And we poor sailors climbing up aloft, And the land lubbers lying down below. Then up spoke the boy of our gallant ship And a well-spoken boy was he: “I’ve a mother and father in London town, And this night they will weep for me.” Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship, And a well-spoken man was he: “I’ve a wife who is living in Liverpool town, A wife whom I never shall see.” “My wife who is living in Liverpool town This night will be looking for me; She may look till the sun no more goes down, She may look to the bottom of the sea.” Then three times around went our gallant ship, And three times around went she; And three times around was the end of her trip, When she sank to the bottom of the sea. [3] There may be a few readers to whom it is necessary to point out that this first ballad of the “Mermaid” is an old song, here used as introduction to a second by me, which is of the same nature. 39 40 41 42 THE MERMAN Then another man said when that song was sung: There are men like you and me, Who will sometimes come ashore and get sprung, Yet who live at the bottom of the sea. For I myself knew one of that folk (I believe he still lives and thrives), And I’ll tell you the truth without any joke How we saved one another’s blest lives. I was walking one night in New York town, And the moon shone bright and clear, When I thought I heard a singular sound That came from a board-yard near. First was a groan of misery, And then a scythe of pain; And a voice which wailed: “Oh where is the Sea? Which I never shall see again?” And I thought that party must be cracked, Or a little over the bay; Because the water was not, in fact, A half of a mile away. So I looked that sufferin’ mortal up, And found, sufficiently soon, A man who looked like a perishin’ pup, As he lay in the light of the moon. And I said to him, “Matey, just confess What all of this row’s about, And what was it got you into this mess, And how can I get you out?” Then this man he opened his eyes so wide: “No more do I ask of thee Than to carry me down to the water’s side, And chuck me right into the sea.” And I says, “ ’Tis a singular thing to ask, But I think it can be no sin, And anyhow ’tis an easy task To carry and pitch you in.” So I picked that perishin’ person up, And slewed him on my back, And he wriggled and moved with many a flup Like a codfish or a jack. But when I had carried him half the way, He seemed to be half-way done, And when we had got ’longside of the bay, I guessed that his life was gone. But when he heard the water splash, He opened his eyes—you bet! And said: “If you only will make a dash— Good Lord! there’s a chance for me yet!” And when we came to the water’s edge, I never a word did say, But carried him right to the end of the Ledge, And dumped him into the Bay. And then he gin a yell of delight, And then he warbled a tune, As he swam about in the water bright, All there in the light of the moon. And he hollered to me his partin’ thanks, And said: “I am outer my pain; Good-bye! I’m off for the ’Foundland Banks; Some day we shall meet again.” Now when a year had passed I found Myself in a Southern sea, A-wrecked; for all on board were drowned, And nobody saved but me. 43 44 45 46 47