The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 68

Blue gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead-- Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor, Rugged of front and form; A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from We know, and there's nothing more!

But perhaps his mother is waiting In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying, Reason drifting awreck, "'Tis my watch." he would mutter, "I must go upon deck!"

Aye, on deck, by the foremast!

But watch and lookout are done; The Union Jack laid o'er him, How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft; Let the roll of the ocean Cradle our giant craft; Gather around the grating, Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer!

Let every foot be quiet, Every head be bare-- The soft trade-wind is lifting A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service, (A little spray on his cheeks) The grand old words of burial, And the trust a true heart seeks:-- "We therefore commit his body To the deep"--and, as he speaks,

Launched from the weather railing, Swift as the eye can mark, The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas coffin; But, silence to doubt and dole:-- There's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor aweary soul.

Free the fettered engine, Speed the tireless shaft, Loose to'gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead-- Every man to his duty, We have buried our dead!

Henry Howard Brownell [1820-1872]

TOM BOWLING

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, The word to "pipe all hands."

Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

MESSMATES

Ha gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away.

It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles around; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound.

It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As they thrash to and fro, And the battles.h.i.+ps' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

Henry Newbolt [1862-

THE LAST BUCCANEER

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his h.o.a.rds of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro la.s.s to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the sh.o.r.e.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's s.h.i.+ps sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro la.s.s beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE LAST BUCCANEER

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the s.h.i.+p without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas?

Say, come ye from the sh.o.r.e of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"

"From a sh.o.r.e no search hath found, from a gull no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde A loud crash and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep The corpses and wreck to the sh.o.r.e."

The stately s.h.i.+p of Clyde securely now may ride In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, Through the seas of the balmy Trades.