An old tradition says that a flock of sheep were blown from Gwithian sands into St. Ives Bay, and that St. Ives fishermen caught them, believing them to be a new variety of fish, either with their nets, or with hook and line, and brought them ashore as their night’s catch.
About eighty years ago, Mr. Fortescue Hitchins wrote the following verses on this tradition.
Sometime ago in days of yore,
On Cornwall’s northern sandy shore,
A borough town, as some folks say,
Stood on the margin of a bay;
And through all the country round
Its folks for wisdom were renowed.
East of this famous borough’s bay
A barren, sandy common lay,
Where the farmers naught could keep,
Except some flocks of half-starved sheep.
[90]
One dusky night the wind blew high,
Black, lowering clouds obscured the sky:
With furious sway the eastern blast
Swept all before it as it past;
Storm-driven stores of frighted sheep
Were hurried down the sandy steep;
Nor could they face the sweeping sway,
Which sent them headlong into sea.
Bad are the winds, as all must know,
That never good to any blow;
Since two or three, at dawn of day,
Wreck-hunters ranging round the bay,
With joy beheld the fleecy flock
Lie dead around on sand and rock.
They, with good Ammon, when they spied,
Opened their throats and “heava!” cried.
This well-known sound aroused them all,
And out they tumbled great and small:
Fish-bulkers, chimney-sweepers, sailors,
Parson, clerk, tinkers, and tailors,
Coopers, crabpot-makers, cobblers,
Hewers, hake-whippers, and hoblers,
Boat-menders, seiners, and warp-hawlers,
And all the gape-mouth heava bawlers.
With joy they see the mutton store,
And “heava” sound from shore to shore:
So counting honestly the sheep
A God-send from the stormy deep,
All hands turned-to, with wonderous pain,
To share the unexpected gain;
Brought home of mutton such a store
Which lasted them ten days or more;
And from each hide made shift to pull
Almost a pound-and-half of wool.
Now, mutton roasted, mutton boiled,
And mutton fried, and baked, and broiled,
Which, savoury, smoaking from a dish,
Had almost drowned the smell of fish.
Five days they watched the foaming tide,
Hoping more sheep might yet be spied.
And now and then their longing eyes
With joy salute the mutton prize;
And when, at length, a heavy sea
Has fairly thrown them in their way,
Surrounded like a flock of crows,
Which carrion want to fill their maws.
Now those who have to feed on fish
Ten minutes took to enjoy that dish;
An hour now to dinner linger,
To pick the bones and lick their fingers.
These thankful folks were heard to say—
“O blessed was that happy day
That brought such stormy sway to sweep
Into our Bay such flocks of sheep! [91]
O might such storms, ten times a year,
Send such good store of such good cheer!
O that the storm would also bring
A few good ankers from the sling,
Buried by smugglers in the sea,
And throw them plump into our Bay!
Then we lazy lubbers all
Might lean our backs against the wall,
And thankfully enjoy the sun,—
That would be glorious lazy fun!”
“Heava” is shouted from the high ground on which a watch is kept for pilchards as soon as the “huers” signal their approach. These signals are made to seiners in the boats, by the means of bushes, or wire-frames covered with white cloth.
The cheering sound of “heava” no sooner reached St. Ives than it resounded from street to street, and soon reached the country.
It has been said that this word “heava” was either a contraction of “we have them, or here they are;” but its origin is uncertain.