Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 12

The barnacled rocks emerging seem, As their beards of seaweed are tossed about, Like giants who wake from a troubled dream And laugh for joy when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the s.h.i.+ning sands, Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow; How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands, O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go!

The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet, Relic of by-gone vessel stout, With its clinging sh.e.l.ls, seems a bar of jet, Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through; How the far-off s.h.i.+ps, like flakes of snow, Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue!

The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat, Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt, But with flas.h.i.+ng lances the sand-bars meet And drive him back, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud; How the rills, like children set free from school, Prattle and plash and sing aloud!

The sh.o.r.e-birds cheerily call, the while They dart and circle in merry rout,-- The face of the ocean seems to smile And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, as the years roll by, And Life sweeps on to the outer bar, And I feel the chill of the depths that lie Beyond the shoals where the breakers are, I will not rail at a kindly Fate, Or welcome Age with a peevish pout, But still, with a heart of Youth, await The final wave, when the tide goes out.

THE WATCHERS

When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the sh.o.r.e, And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more, Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep, The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep.

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring!

Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring!

List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll!

Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew, And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the s.h.i.+p it slew.

Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear!

Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!"

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all!

Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call!

List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan: Here is the sullen sh.o.r.e where the white-toothed breakers moan; Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind, To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind, To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair!

Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!"

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek!

Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak!

List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief: Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow, And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below, Where, under the sh.e.l.l-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,-- Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!"

And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips, Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound s.h.i.+ps,-- A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,-- "Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"

Ter sparkle in the sun; He do'n't parade with gay c.o.c.kade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"

So lovely, spick and span,-- He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Reg'lar Army man; The marchin', parchin', Pipe-clay starchin', Reg'lar Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temp'rance advocate, He likes ter fill the "can,"

He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough, The Reg'lar Army man; The r'arin', tearin', Sometimes swearin', Reg'lar Army man.

No State'll call him "n.o.ble son,"

He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet!

He "do'n't cut any ice" at all In Fash'n's social plan,-- He gits the job ter face a mob, The Reg'lar Army man; The millin', drilling Made fer killin', Reg'lar Army man.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "They ain't no tears shed over him. When he goes off ter war."]

They ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off ter war, He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach"

From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, Ter start the fight and start it right, The Reg'lar Army man; The rattlin', battlin', Colt or Gatlin', Reg'lar Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job, He do'n't talk big or brave,-- He knows he's in ter fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the sc.r.a.p, The Reg'lar Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Reg'lar Army man.

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell, Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from h.e.l.l; A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread, With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red; Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose, The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk, Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown, And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down; And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare, And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air; Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.

Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane; Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway, And barely leaps to safety as the cras.h.i.+ng roof gives way; Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim, And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him; But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.

And then the morning paper may have half a column filled With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed"; And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball; But, maybe, on the other side, on G.o.d's great roll of fame, Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.

LITTLE BARE FEET

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, Patterin', patterin' up and down, Dancin' over the kitchen floor, Light as the foam-flakes on the sh.o.r.e,-- Right on the go from morn till late, From the garden path ter the old front gate,-- There hain't no music ter me so sweet As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea, Them little bare feet trot there with me, And a shrill little voice I love'll say: "Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."

And I know when my dory comes ter land, There's a spry little form somewheres on hand; And the very fust sound my ears'll meet Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed Yer prints of love in my worn old breast!

And I sometimes think, when I come ter die, 'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by; That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear That little child's voice, so sweet and clear; That even there, on the golden street, I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.

A RAINY DAY

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,-- Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin', And a-pesterin' around, wis.h.i.+n' it was rainin'.

Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water das.h.i.+n'

From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splas.h.i.+n', With the leaves and twigs around, s.h.i.+nin' wet and drippin', Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder, Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder, Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges, Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.