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Title: Salt-Water Ballads

Author: John Masefield

Release date: August 9, 2016 [eBook #52761]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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SALT-WATER BALLADS

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
DALLAS · ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

SALT-WATER
BALLADS

BY
JOHN MASEFIELD

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1915

Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1913
Reprinted April, 1915.

Some of this book was written in my boyhood, all of it in my youth; it is now re-issued, much as it was when first published nearly eleven years ago. J. M.

9th June 1913

	PAGE
A CONSECRATION
Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers.	1
THE YARN OF THE ‘LOCH ACHRAY’
The ‘Loch Achray’ was a clipper tall.	3
SING A SONG O’ SHIPWRECK
He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea	7
BURIAL PARTY
‘He’s deader ’n nails,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘ ’n’ gone to his long sleep’	11
BILL
He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies	14
FEVER SHIP
There’ll be no weepin gells ashore when our ship sails	15
FEVER-CHILLS
He tottered out of the alleyway with cheeks the colour of paste	17
ONE OF THE BO’SUN’S YARNS
Loafin’ around in Sailor Town, a-bluin’ o’ my advance	19
HELLS PAVEMENT
‘When I’m discharged in Liverpool ’n’ draws my bit o’ pay’	25
SEA-CHANGE
‘Goneys an’ gullies an’ all o’ the birds o’ the sea’	27
HARBOUR-BAR
All in the feathered palm-tree tops the bright green parrots screech	29
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
An’ Bill can have my sea-boots, Nigger Jim can have my knife	31
ONE OF WALLY’S YARNS
The watch was up on the topsail-yard a-making fast the sail	33
A VALEDITION (LIVERPOOL DOCKS)
Is there anything as I can do ashore for you	35
A NIGHT AT DAGO TOM’S
Oh yesterday, I t’ink it was, while cruisin’ down the street	38
‘PORT OF MANY SHIPS’
‘It’s a sunny pleasant anchorage, is Kingdom Come’	40
CAPE HORN GOSPEL—I
‘I was in a hooker once,’ said Karlssen	42
CAPE HORN GOSPEL—II
Jake was a dirty Dago lad, an’ he gave the skipper chin	45
MOTHER CAREY
Mother Carey? She’s the mother o’ the witches	48
EVENING—REGATTA DAY
Your nose is a red jelly, your mouth’s a toothless wreck	50
A VALEDITION
We’re bound for blue water where the great winds blow	52
A PIER-HEAD CHORUS
Oh, I’ll be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread	54
THE GOLDEN CITY OF ST. MARY
Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way	56
TRADE WINDS
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas	58
SEA-FEVER
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky	59
A WANDERER’S SONG
A wind’s in the heart o’ me, a fire’s in my heels	61
CARDIGAN BAY
Clean, green, windy billows notching out the sky	63
A wind is rustling ‘south and soft’	64
CHRISTMAS EVE AT SEA
A BALLAD OF CAPE ST. VINCENT
‘Now, Bill, ain’t it prime to be a-sailin’	66
THE TARRY BUCCANEER
I’m going to be a pirate with a bright brass pivot-gun	68
A BALLAD OF JOHN SILVER
We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome hull	71
LYRICS FROM ‘THE BUCCANEER’
I.—We are far from sight of the harbour lights	74
II.—There’s a sea-way somewhere where all day long	75
III.—The toppling rollers at the harbour mouth	76
D’AVALOS’ PRAYER
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted	77
THE WEST WIND
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries	79
THE GALLEY-ROWERS
Staggering over the running combers	82
SORROW OF MYDATH
Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea	84
VAGABOND
Dunno a heap about the what an’ why	85
VISION
I have drunken the red wine and flung the dice	86
SPUNYARN
Spunyarn, spunyarn, with one to turn the crank	88
THE DEAD KNIGHT
The cleanly rush of the mountain air	89
PERSONAL
Tramping at night in the cold and wet, I passed the lighted inn	91
ON MALVERN HILL
A wind is brushing down the clover	92
TEWKESBURY ROAD
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where	94
ON EATNOR KNOLL
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are	96
‘REST HER SOUL, SHE’S DEAD!’
She has done with the sea’s sorrow and the world’s way	97
‘ALL YE THAT PASS BY’
On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street	99
IN MEMORY OF A. P. R.
Once in the windy wintry weather	101
TO-MORROW
Oh yesterday the cutting edge drank thirstily and deep	102
CAVALIER
All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme	104
A SONG AT PARTING
The tick of the blood is settling slow, my heart will soon be still	106
GLOSSARY	109

‘The mariners are a pleasant people, but little like those in the towns, and they can speak no other language than that used in ships.’

The Licenciate Vidriera.

A CONSECRATION

NOT of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers
Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,—
Rather the scorned—the rejected—the men hemmed in with the spears;

The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,
Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries,
The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.

Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,
Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,
But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.

Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,
The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,
The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.

The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,
The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.

Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,
The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;—
Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!

Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;
Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.
Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold—

Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.

Amen.

THE YARN OF THE ‘LOCH ACHRAY’

The ‘Loch Achray’ was a clipper tall
With seven-and-twenty hands in all.
Twenty to hand and reef and haul,
A skipper to sail and mates to bawl
‘Tally on to the tackle-fall,
Heave now ’n’ start her, heave ’n’ pawl!’
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

Her crew were shipped and they said ‘Farewell,
So-long, my Tottie, my lovely gell;
We sail to-day if we fetch to hell,
It’s time we tackled the wheel a spell.’
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

The dockside loafers talked on the quay
The day that she towed down to sea:
‘Lord, what a handsome ship she be!
Cheer her, sonny boys, three times three!’
And the dockside loafers gave her a shout
As the red-funnelled tug-boat towed her out;
They gave her a cheer as the custom is,
And the crew yelled ‘Take our loves to Liz—
Three cheers, bullies, for old Pier Head
’N’ the bloody stay-at-homes!’ they said.
Hear the yarn of a sailor
An old yarn learned at sea.

In the grey of the coming on of night
She dropped the tug at the Tuskar Light,
’N’ the topsails went to the topmast head
To a chorus that fairly awoke the dead.
She trimmed her yards and slanted South
With her royals set and a bone in her mouth.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

She crossed the Line and all went well,
They ate, they slept, and they struck the bell
And I give you a gospel truth when I state
The crowd didn’t find any fault with the Mate,
But one night off the River Plate.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

It freshened up till it blew like thunder
And burrowed her deep, lee-scuppers under.
The old man said, ‘I mean to hang on
Till her canvas busts or her sticks are gone’—
Which the blushing looney did, till at last
Overboard went her mizzen-mast.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

Then a fierce squall struck the ‘Loch Achray’
And bowed her down to her water-way;
Her main-shrouds gave and her forestay,
And a green sea carried her wheel away;
Ere the watch below had time to dress
She was cluttered up in a blushing mess.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

She couldn’t lay-to nor yet pay-off,
And she got swept clean in the bloody trough;
Her masts were gone, and afore you knowed
She filled by the head and down she goed.
Her crew made seven-and-twenty dishes
For the big jack-sharks and the little fishes,
And over their bones the water swishes.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

The wives and girls they watch in the rain
For a ship as won’t come home again.
‘I reckon it’s them head-winds,’ they say,
‘She’ll be home to-morrow, if not to-day.
I’ll just nip home ’n’ I’ll air the sheets
’N’ buy the fixins ’n’ cook the meats
As my man likes ’n’ as my man eats.’

So home they goes by the windy streets,
Thinking their men are homeward bound
With anchors hungry for English ground,
And the bloody fun of it is, they’re drowned!
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.

SING A SONG O’ SHIPWRECK

He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea,
With ear-rings of brass and a jumper of dungaree,
‘ ’N’ many a queer lash-up have I seen,’ says he.

‘But the toughest hooray o’ the racket,’ he says, ‘I’ll be sworn,
’N’ the roughest traverse I worked since the day I was born,
Was a packet o’ Sailor’s Delight as I scoffed in the seas o’ the Horn.

‘All day long in the calm she had rolled to the swell,
Rolling through fifty degrees till she clattered her bell;
’N’ then came snow, ’n’ a squall, ’n’ a wind was colder ’n hell.

‘It blew like the Bull of Barney, a beast of a breeze,
’N’ over the rail come the cold green lollopin’ seas,
’N’ she went ashore at the dawn on the Ramirez.

‘She was settlin’ down by the stern when I got to the deck,
Her waist was a smother o’ sea as was up to your neck,
’N’ her masts were gone, ’n’ her rails, ’n’ she was a wreck.

‘We rigged up a tackle, a purchase, a sort of a shift,
To hoist the boats off o’ the deck-house and get them adrift,
When her stern gives a sickenin’ settle, her bows give a lift,

‘ ’N’ comes a crash of green water as sets me afloat
With freezing fingers clutching the keel of a boat—
The bottom-up whaler—’n’ that was the juice of a note.

‘Well, I clambers acrost o’ the keel ’n’ I gets me secured,
When I sees a face in the white o’ the smother to looard,
So I gives ’im a ’and, ’n’ be shot if it wasn’t the stooard!

‘So he climbs up forrard o’ me, ’n’ “thanky,” a’ says,
’N’ we sits ’n’ shivers ’n’ freeze to the bone wi’ the sprays,
’N’ I sings “Abel Brown,” ’n’ the stooard he prays.

‘Wi’ never a dollop to sup nor a morsel to bite,
The lips of us blue with the cold ’n’ the heads of us light,
Adrift in a Cape Horn sea for a day ’n’ a night.

‘ ’N’ then the stooard goes dotty ’n’ puts a tune to his lip,
’N’ moans about Love like a dern old hen wi’ the pip—
(I sets no store upon stooards—they ain’t no use on a ship).

‘ ’N’ “mother,” the looney cackles, “come ’n’ put Willy to bed!”
So I says “Dry up, or I’ll fetch you a crack o’ the head”;
“The kettle’s a-bilin’,” he answers, “ ’n’ I’ll go butter the bread.”

‘ ’N’ he falls to singin’ some slush about clinkin’ a can,
’N’ at last he dies, so he does, ’n’ I tells you, Jan,
I was glad when he did, for he weren’t no fun for a man.

‘So he falls forrard, he does, ’n’ he closes his eye,
’N’ quiet he lays ’n’ quiet I leaves him lie,
’N’ I was alone with his corp, ’n’ the cold green sea and the sky.

‘ ’N’ then I dithers, I guess, for the next as I knew
Was the voice of a mate as was sayin’ to one of the crew,
“Easy, my son, wi’ the brandy, be shot if he ain’t comin’-to!” ’

BURIAL PARTY

‘He’s deader ’n nails,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘ ’n’ gone to his long sleep’;
‘ ’N’ about his corp,’ said Tom to Dan, ‘d’ye think his corp’ll keep
Till the day’s done, ’n’ the work’s through, ’n’ the ebb’s upon the neap?’

‘He’s deader ’n nails,’ said Dan to Tom, ‘ ’n’ I wish his sperrit j’y;
He spat straight ’n’ he steered true, but listen to me, say I,
Take ’n’ cover ’n’ bury him now, ’n’ I’ll take ’n’ tell you why.

‘It’s a rummy rig of a guffy’s yarn, ’n’ the juice of a rummy note,
But if you buries a corp at night, it takes ’n’ keeps afloat,
For its bloody soul’s afraid o’ the dark ’n’ sticks within the throat.

‘ ’N’ all the night till the grey o’ the dawn the dead ’un has to swim
With a blue ’n’ beastly Will o’ the Wisp a-burnin’ over him,
With a herring, maybe, a-scoffin’ a toe or a shark a-chewin’ a limb.

‘ ’N’ all the night the shiverin’ corp it has to swim the sea,
With its shudderin’ soul inside the throat (where a soul’s no right to be),
Till the sky’s grey ’n’ the dawn’s clear, ’n’ then the sperrit’s free.

‘Now Joe was a man was right as rain. I’m sort of sore for Joe,
’N’ if we bury him durin’ the day, his soul can take ’n’ go;
So we’ll dump his corp when the bell strikes ’n’ we can get below.

‘I’d fairly hate for him to swim in a blue ’n’ beastly light,
With his shudderin’ soul inside of him a-feelin’ the fishes bite,
So over he goes at noon, say I, ’n’ he shall sleep to-night.’

BILL

He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies,
With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes:
‘Bill, he’s dead,’ was all they said; ‘he’s dead, ’n’ there he lies.’

The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail:
‘Just lash him up wi’ some holystone in a clout o’ rotten sail,
’N’, rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye’re slower’n a bloody snail!’

When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel,
We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel.
‘It’s rough about Bill,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘we’ll have to stand his wheel.’

FEVER SHIP

There’ll be no weepin’ gells ashore when our ship sails,
Nor no crews cheerin’ us, standin’ at the rails,
’N’ no Blue Peter a-foul the royal stay,
For we’ve the Yellow Fever—Harry died to-day.—
It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

’N’ Dick has got the fever-shakes, ’n’ look what I was told
(I went to get a sack for him to keep him from the cold):
‘Sir, can I have a sack?’ I says, ‘for Dick ’e’s fit to die.’
‘Oh, sack be shot!’ the skipper says, ‘jest let the rotter lie!’—
It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

It’s a cruel port is Santos, and a hungry land,
With rows o’ graves already dug in yonder strip of sand,
’N’ Dick is hollerin’ up the hatch, ’e says ’e’s goin’ blue,
His pore teeth are chattering, ’n’ what’s a man to do?—
It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

FEVER-CHILLS

He tottered out of the alleyway with cheeks the colour of paste,
And shivered a spell and mopped his brow with a clout of cotton waste:
‘I’ve a lick of fever-chills,’ he said, ‘ ’n’ my inside it’s green,
But I’d be as right as rain,’ he said, ‘if I had some quinine,—
But there ain’t no quinine for us poor sailor-men.

‘But them there passengers,’ he said, ‘if they gets fever-chills,
There’s brimmin’ buckets o’ quinine for them, ’n’ bulgin’ crates o’ pills,
’N’ a doctor with Latin ’n’ drugs ’n’ all—enough to sink a town,
’N’ they lies quiet in their blushin’ bunks ’n’ mops their gruel down,—
But their ain’t none o’ them fine ways for us poor sailor-men.

‘But the Chief comes forrard ’n’ he says, says he, “I gives you a straight tip:
Come none o’ your Cape Horn fever lays aboard o’ this yer ship.
On wi’ your rags o’ duds, my son, ’n’ aft, ’n’ down the hole:
The best cure known for fever-chills is shovelling bloody coal.”
It’s hard, my son, that’s what it is, for us poor sailor-men.’

ONE OF THE BO’SUN’S YARNS

Loafin’ around in Sailor Town, a-bluin’ o’ my advance,
I met a derelict donkeyman who led me a merry dance,
Till he landed me ’n’ bleached me fair in the bar of a rum-saloon,
’N’ there he spun me a juice of a yarn to this-yer brand of tune.

‘It’s a solemn gospel, mate,’ he says, ‘but a man as ships aboard
A steamer-tramp, he gets his whack of the wonders of the Lord—
Such as roaches crawlin’ over his bunk, ’n’ snakes inside his bread,
And work by night and work by day enough to strike him dead.

‘But that there’s by the way,’ says he; ‘the yarn I’m goin’ to spin
Is about myself ’n’ the life I led in the last ship I was in,
The “Esmeralda,” casual tramp, from Hull towards the Hook,
Wi’ one o’ the brand o’ Cain for mate ’n’ a human mistake for cook.

‘We’d a week or so of dippin’ around in a wind from outer hell,
With a fathom or more of broken sea at large in the forrard well,
Till our boats were bashed and bust and broke and gone to Davy Jones,
’N’ then come white Atlantic fog as chilled us to the bones.

‘We slowed her down and started the horn and watch and watch about,
We froze the marrow in all our bones a-keepin’ a good look-out,
’N’ the ninth night out, in the middle watch, I woke from a pleasant dream,
With the smash of a steamer ramming our plates a point abaft the beam.

‘ ’Twas cold and dark when I fetched the deck, dirty ’n’ cold ’n’ thick,
’N’ there was a feel in the way she rode as fairly turned me sick;—
She was settlin’, listin’ quickly down, ’n’ I heard the mates a-cursin’,
’N’ I heard the wash ’n’ the grumble-grunt of a steamer’s screws reversin’.

‘She was leavin’ us, mate, to sink or swim, ’n’ the words we took ’n’ said
They turned the port-light grassy-green ’n’ the starboard rosy-red.
We give her a hot perpetual taste of the singeing curse of Cain,
As we heard her back ’n’ clear the wreck ’n’ off to her course again.

‘Then the mate came dancin’ on to the scene, ’n’ he says, “Now quit yer chin,
Or I’ll smash yer skulls, so help me James, ’n’ let some wisdom in.
Ye dodderin’ scum o’ the slums,” he says, “are ye drunk or blazin’ daft?
If ye wish to save yer sickly hides, ye’d best contrive a raft.”

‘So he spoke us fair and turned us to, ’n’ we wrought wi’ tooth and nail
Wi’ scantling, casks, ’n’ coops ’n’ ropes, ’n’ boiler-plates ’n’ sail,
’N’ all the while it were dark ’n’ cold ’n’ dirty as it could be,
’N’ she was soggy ’n’ settlin’ down to a berth beneath the sea.

‘Soggy she grew, ’n’ she didn’t lift, ’n’ she listed more ’n’ more,
Till her bell struck ’n’ her boiler-pipes began to wheeze ’n’ snore;
She settled, settled, listed, heeled, ’n’ then may I be cust,
If her sneezin’, wheezin’ boiler-pipes did not begin to bust!

‘ ’N’ then the stars began to shine, ’n’ the birds began to sing,
’N’ the next I knowed I was bandaged up ’n’ my arm were in a sling,
’N’ a swab in uniform were there, ’n’ “Well,” says he, “ ’n’ how
Are yer arms, ’n’ legs, ’n’ liver, ’n’ lungs, ’n’ bones a-feelin’ now?”

“Where am I?” says I, ’n’ he says, says he, a-cantin’ to the roll,
“You’re aboard the R.M.S. ‘Marie’ in the after Glory-Hole,
’N’ you’ve had a shave, if you wish to know, from the port o’ Kingdom Come.
Drink this,” he says, ’n’ I takes ’n’ drinks, ’n’ s’elp me, it was rum!

‘Seven survivors seen ’n’ saved of the “Esmeralda’s” crowd,
Taken aboard the sweet “Marie” ’n’ bunked ’n’ treated proud,
’N’ D.B.S.’d to Mersey Docks (’n’ a joyful trip we made),
’N’ there the skipper were given a purse by a grateful Board of Trade.

‘That’s the end o’ the yarn,’ he says, ’n’ he takes ’n’ wipes his lips,
Them’s the works o’ the Lord you sees in steam ’n’ sailin’ ships,—
Rocks ’n’ fogs ’n’ shatterin’ seas ’n’ breakers right ahead,
’N’ work o’ nights ’n’ work o’ days enough to strike you dead.’

Salt-Water Ballads

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