The Sailor

Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,

Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons:—

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the

Hopeless, faithful,

sea;

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

1579

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SAILOR

A ROMAIC BALLAD

THOU that hast a daughter

For one to woo and wed,

Give her to a husband

With snow upon his head;
Oh, give her to an old man,
Though little joy it be,
Before the best young sailor
That sails upon the sea!

How luckless is the sailor
When sick and like to die;
He sees no tender mother,

No sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him,—
Stand up, stand up, young man,

And steer the ship to haven,

As none beside thee can.

Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up";
I say to thee, take hold,

Lift me a little from the deck,

My hands and feet are cold.

And let my head, I pray thee,

With handkerchiefs be bound;

There, take my love's gold handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;
See, where these mountains meet-
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet:

Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft;

The little anchor on the right,

The great one on the left.

And now to thee, O captain,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;-
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.

For there will come the sailors,
Their voices I shall hear,
And at casting of the anchor

The yo-ho loud and clear;
And at hauling of the anchor
The yo-ho and the cheer,-
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay
I never more may steer!

William Allingham (1824-1889]

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE

BLUE gulf all around us,

Blue sky overhead—
Muster all on the quarter,

We must bury the dead!

The Burial of the Dane

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,

1581

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:

Messmates

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.

1583

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

MESSMATES

He 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 ships 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 ships go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough,
As they thrash to and fro,

And the battleships' bells ring clear enough
To be heard down below;