Fust Mate Joe
'E's a tough ole salt,
With a 'ide well tanned,
An' it ain't 'is fault
If the craft is manned
With a motley sort er crew.
Ya-hoo!
An' it is a mixed-up crew.
But 'e's sailed, 'as 'e, on many a sea,
An' e's journeyed nigh an' fur;
'E's a tough ole, rough ole - not to mention gruff ole,
Bluff ole mar-i-ner
Fer 'e sailed among
The Labor Seas
When 'e wus young;
An' since that 'e's
Been on all sorts o' craft
Abaft
And 'fore the mast 'o craft.
Fer ther ain't no boat that's bin afloat
As 'e don't know ev'ry spar;
This sly ole, fly ole, mind-yer-weather-eye ole,
Spry ole deep-sea tar.
Once in the ship
Re-pub-li-can
'E took a trip
As a 'fore-mast man,
An' e transhipped in mid-sea,
Did 'e
Went overside at sea.
Frum a Freetrade raft to a 'Tection craft
'E knows 'em stem to starn.
'E's ratin' as a great un at the art of navigatin',
An' 'e ain't got much to larn.
To watch 'im skip,
On 's nimble feet,
Frum ship to ship
Is a 'igh ole treat.
Fer 'e don't stop long on none.
'E's done
A fair, long cruise on none.
But 'e's larned a lot from the points 'e got
Since 'is cruisin' fust began,
This saine old smarty, sail-with-any-party,
Hearty aailor-man.
Now 'e's signed fust mate
Fer another trip,
Fer to naviprate
The Fusion ship;
An' a crazy craft she is.
Gee-whizz!
An' a frail ole tub she is.
With a crew o' sorts from all the ports,
An' a chance o' mutinee.
But 'e'll see the vessel thro' it, if there's any man kin do it,
Fer a hard ole salt is 'e.
Fer the best o' mates
Is 'im thet's got
Cer-tif-i-cates
From the 'ole darn lot,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Yo-ho!
When the windy storms do blow.
On a Tory tramp 'is callin' damp
'E 'as managed to pursoo.
Now 'e 'as to larn twin-screw ways - with 'er nose a-pointin' two ways,
An' a fair ole rorty crew.
But 'is eye's glued tight
On the compass face,
An' 'e'll make a fight
Fer the anch'rin' place,
Fer the Harbor o' Recess.
O, yes,
There's a harbor at Recess.
An' 'e'll do it yet, with luck, you bet,
Fer 'e' allus bin at sea.
An' there ain't no glummer salt, lightly-go-an'-comer salt,
Rummer sort o'somer-salt than 'e.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Hulk
Now, 'ere's my tip
Fer the Fusion ship,
An' I tells it straight an' square.
I'm a rare old tar
As nigh an' far
You'll not meet ev'rywhere.
I've seen 'er sail
In many a gale,
But she's done 'er final trip;
So I 'itches me breeches, an' a simple tale I pitches
O' this good ole Fusion ship.
'Twas Alf an' Joe,
Long years ago,
They built 'er any 'ow.
Twas a strange ole skiff
With 'er keel skew-wiff,
An' a double-ended bow.
Yus, a nose each end,
An' a grecian bend
Amidships, quaint an' queer.
When I seen 'er take the water, 'Ho!' ses I, 'she is a snorter!'
An' I gives a 'earty cheer.
An' sail she did.
But I'l lay ten quid
No ship, befor enor since,
Done 'ark 'er tricks;
'Er darned ole fix
'Ud make longshoremen wince.
She'd bob and bow,
The blamed old scow,
Like a wet an' foolish 'en;
An' 'er subsekint behav'er an' the effects fer to save 'er
Was a treat fer sialor-men.
An' Alf 'e was
'Er skipper, 'cos
No other could be got
To sail that craft!
An' fore an' aft
They was a rare ole lot.
So queer a crew
I never knew
An' Joe, 'e was fust mate.
An' to 'ear 'im scold and rate 'er, when 'e tried to navigate 'er -
Well, I tell yeh, it was great!
Fer some they said
To point 'er 'ead
Fer nor'-nor'-east by east,
Fer Tory Bay,
An' some said 'Nay,'
An' the langwidge never eased.
An' some they pressed
To sail doo west,
Fer the ole Freetection port.
An' the way she waltzed an' wobbled, while they 'owled an' fought an' squabbled.
Ho, I never seen sich sport!
An' poor ole Joe!
'Is watch below
Was mostly short an' sweet;
Fer 'e never knew
Wot time that crew
Might up an' change 'er beat.
But Alf, the boss,
'E took 'is doss,
An' 'e let 'er sail or stop;
Fer in days when seas was finer 'e was skipper of a liner,
An' 'e sorter felt the drop.
Now, she dropped at last
'Er anchor fast
In the 'arbor of Recess.
'Er sheets is tore,
An' 'er plates is wore,
An' she'll sail no more, I guess.
Alf got the pip
On 'er final trip,
An' there's some as said 'e swore
'E was sickened of 'er capers; so 'e 'anded in 'id papers,
An' she'll put to sea no more.
But it's 'ip, 'ip, 'ip!
fer the Fusion ship,
Fer the navigatin' 'en!
Since 'er cruise begun
She 'as give great fun
To us 'eart sailor-men.
We 'ave cheered an' laughed
An' joked an' chaffed
Since the day she put to sea;
So I takes a pull and 'itches (as our 'abit is) my breeches,
An' I give 'er three times three.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Old Cruiser
HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers
Just as she 's done for these forty years,
Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!
Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!
Comes a vessel out of the dock
Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock,
Feathered with sails and spurred with steam,
Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard,
Every man as fine as a lord.
Gay they look and proud they feel,
Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide,--
Gain at last the old ship's side;
Every man looks down in turn,--
Reads the name that's on her stern.
'Twenty-nine!--Diable you say!
That was in Skipper Kirkland's day!
What was the Flying Dutchman's name?
This old rover must be the same.
'Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck,
How does it happen you're not a wreck?
One and another have come to grief,
How have you dodged by rock and reef?'
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,
Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid
'Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief
Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf.'
'I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat
With all you jolly old boys afloat,
When scores of vessels as good as she
Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?
'Many a crew from many a craft
Goes drifting by on a broken raft
Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine
Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.
'Some capsized in an angry breeze,
Some were lost in the narrow seas,
Some on snags and some on sands
Struck and perished and lost their hands.
'Tell us young ones, you gray old man,
What is your secret, if you can.
We have a ship as good as you,
Show us how to keep our crew.'
So in his ear the youngster cries;
Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:--
'All your crew be sure you know,--
Never let one of your shipmates go.
'If he leaves you, change your tack,
Follow him close and fetch him back;
When you've hauled him in at last,
Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
'If you've wronged him, speak him fair,
Say you're sorry and make it square;
If he's wronged you, wink so tight
None of you see what 's plain in sight.
'When the world goes hard and wrong,
Lend a hand to help him along;
When his stockings have holes to darn,
Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.
'Once in a twelvemonth, come what may,
Anchor your ship in a quiet bay,
Call all hands and read the log,
And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.
'Stick to each other through thick and thin;
All the closer as age leaks in;
Squalls will blow and clouds will frown,
But stay by your ship till you all go down!'
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Junk and the Dhow
"An Unqualified Pilot"
Once a pair of savages found a stranded tree.
(One-piecee stick -pidgin -- two piecee man.
Straddle-um-paddle-um-push -um off to sea.
That way Foleign Debbil-boat began.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any shape of sailing-craft was known,
The Junk and Dhow had a stern and a bow,
And a mast and a sail of their own--ahoy! alone!
As they crashed across the Oceans on their own!
Once there was a pirate-ship, being blown ashore--
(Plitty soon pilum up, s'posee no can tack..
Seven-piecee stlong man pullum sta'boa'd oar.
That way bling her head alound and sail-o back.)
But before, and before, an ever so long before
Grand Commander Noah took the wheel,
The Junk and the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Had rudders reaching deep below their keel--ahoy! akeel!
As they laid the Eastern Seas beneath their keel!
Once there was galliot yawing in a tide.
(Too much foolee side-slip. How can stop?
Man catchee tea box lid--lasha longaside.
That way make her plenty glip and sail first-chop.)
But before and before, and ever so long before
And such contrivances were used,
The whole Confucian sea-board had standardized the lee-board.
And hauled it up or dropped it as they choosed--or chose--or
chused!
According to the weather, when they cruised!
Once there was a caravel in a beam-sea roll--
(Ca'qo shiftee--alla dliftee-no can livee long.
S'posum' nail-o boa'd acloss--makee ploper hol'?
That way ca'qo sittum still, an' ship mo' stlong.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any square-rigged vessel hove in sight,
The Canton deep-sea craft carried bulkheads fore and aft,
And took good care to keep 'em water-tight-atite-atite!
From Amboyna to the Great Australian Bight!
Once there was a sailor-man singing just this way--
(Too muchee yowl-o, sickum best flend!
Singee all-same pullee lope--haul and belay!
Hully up and coilum down an'-- bite off end!)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any sort of chanty crossed our lips,
The Junk and the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Were the Mother and the Father of all Ships--ahoy!--a'ships
And of half the new inventions in our Ships!
From Tarifa to Formosa in our Ships!
From Socotra to Selankhor of the windlass and the anchor,
And the Navigators Compass in our Ships--ahoy!--our Ships!
(O, hully up and coilum down and--bite--off--end!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Landlubbers
I nigh drops dead (the bo'sun said)
When the gist of things I grip
In the land by these 'ere Southern seas
As I seen on my long last trip.
They seems a joke, them curious folk
Wot bides at the blue sea's lip,
Whose wealth is made in a world-wide trade -
Landlubbers all wot seems afraid,
For they ain't got a deep-sea ship.
No, they ain't got a deep-sea ship, they ain't,
For their 'earts ain't with the blue,
Tho' they claims the seed of the tough sea breed,
Like Drake, an' me an' you.
On their isle sea-girt they farms the dirt
Of a fertile coastal strip;
But they seems afraid of a sea-borne trade
An' the hauls their British fathers made,
For they ain't got a deep-sea ship.
Sea born an' bred (the bo'sun said)
As man an' boy I been
Nigh every place on earth's broad face,
An' all the seas atween;
But I ne'er 'ave spoke such curious folk
As I seen on this 'ere trip,
Who seeks for marts in furrin parts,
Yet for blue water have no hearts;
For they ain't got a deep-sea ship.
No, they ain't got a deep-sea ship, they ain't;
An' it don't seem like they care,
For they 'ands the job to any ole yob
Wot makes a landfall there.
In tramp an' tub they ships their grub -
Aw, it fair gives me the pip!
They've wool an' wine, an' corn an' kine,
An' the carryin' trade would suit 'em, fine,
But they ain't got a deep-sea ship!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mermaid I
AS we lay musing in our beds,
So well and so warm at ease,
I thought upon those lodging-beds
Poor seamen have at seas.
Last Easter day, in the morning fair,
We was not far from land,
Where we spied a mermaid on the rock,
With comb and glass in hand.
The first came up the mate of our ship,
With lead and line in hand,
To sound and see how deep we was
From any rock or sand.
The next came up the boatswain of our ship,
With courage stout and bold:
‘Stand fast, stand fast, my brave lively lads,
Stand fast, my brave hearts of gold!’
Our gallant ship is gone to wreck,
Which was so lately trimmd;
The raging seas has sprung a leak,
And the salt water does run in.
Our gold and silver, and all our cloths,
And all that ever we had,
We forced was to heave them overboard,
Thinking our lives to save.
In all, the number that was on board
Was five hundred and sixty-four,
And all that ever came alive on shore
There was but poor ninety-five.
The first bespoke the captain of our ship,
And a well-spoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Plymouth town,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the mate of our ship,
And a well-bespoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Portsmouth,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the boatswain of our ship,
And a well-bespoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Exeter,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the little cabbin-boy,
And a well-bespoke boy was he;
‘I am as sorry for my mother dear
As you are for your wives all three.
‘Last night, when the moon shin’d bright,
My mother had sons five,
But now she may look in the salt seas
And find but one alive.’
‘Call a boat, call a boat, you little
Plymouth boys,
Don’t you hear how the trumpet[s] sound?
[For] the want of our boat our gallant ship
is lost,
And the most of our merry men is drownd.’
Whilst the raging seas do roar,
And the lofty winds do blow,
And we poor seamen do lie on the top,
Whilst the landmen lies below.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Last Landfall
'Outgoing: the Ooonah for Burnie'....
How often the radio spoke;
Till the stout little ship and her journey
Grew into a mild sort of joke.
But no longer her donkeyman grapples
His slings by the sweet island shore
For a cargo of timber or apples.
The Oonah goes sailing no more.
No more; save the landfall she's making,
The last, on her funeral trip
To the land where she goes for her breaking
Grim graveyard of many a ship.
And a few, it may be, will go grieving
To know of that busy craft's fate,
Who many times hooved with her heaving
As Oonah rolled over the strait.
There many proud, tall-masted schooners
She passed in the night, ships o' sail;
While stars winked o'er fond honeymooners
Who whispered soft words by her rail.
And tourists and grave politicians,
Who knew the old Oonah full well,
In all sorts of weather conditions,
Have had many a story to tell.
And many a soul who sailed with her,
Since Oonah first breasted the foam,
Has taken the long voyage thither,
To every man's ultimate home.
Who knows now what mystical journey
Those sail, to the sounds of high mirth
As a ghost-ships heads hull-down for Burnie,
With a complement not of the earth.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Let Her Go Down
Sometime in October
we sailed from England's shore
When we sailed into a raging storm
like I never ever seen before
And all of the crew they were brave men
but the captain he was braver
and he said
"Never mind the ship me boys
There's none of us here can save her"
Let her go down Swim for your lives
Swim for your children swim for your wives
Let her go down Let her go down
Lost in the open ocean
there was some of the crew and me
while the captain steered our wounded ship
to the bottom of an angry sea
And with his dying breath
we all heard him say
"It's just the fortune of sailor"
and he said
"Never mind the ship me boys
There's none of us here can save her"
chorus
He wondered if his shipmates
were ready to just pray and give in
so he called their names out one by one
but there was no one else around but him
He saw the ship go down the fading light
and he knew that they could have saved her
He said
"The captain lied when the captain cried
'There's none of us here can save her' "
chorus
Swim for your lives
Swim for your children swim for your wives
Let her go down Let her go down
Swim for your lives
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Yarn of the Nancy Bell
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship NANCY BELL
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the NANCY'S men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the NANCY'S mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, -
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook ME,
While I can - and will - cook YOU!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.
And some sage and parsley too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
''T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And - as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!
"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have - which is to say:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Wreck of the Schooner Samuel Crawford
'Twas in the year of 1886, and on the 29th of November,
Which the surviving crew of the "Samuel Crawford" will long remember,
She was bound to Baltimore with a cargo of pine lumber;
But, alas! the crew suffered greatly from cold and hunger.
'Twas on December 3rd when about ten miles south-west
Of Currituck light, and scudding at her best;
That a heavy gale struck her a merciless blow,
Which filled the hearts of the crew with fear and woe.
Then the merciless snow came down, hiding everything from view,
And as the night closed in the wind tempestuous blew;
Still the brave crew reefed the spanker and all the sails,
While not one amongst them with fear bewails.
Still the gallant little schooner ploughed on the seas,
Through the blinding snow and the stormy breeze;
Until it increased to a fearful hurricane,
Yet the crew wrought manfully and didn't complain.
But during the night the wind it harder blew,
And the brave little schooner was hove to;
And on the morning of December the 4th the wind died out,
But it rent the schooner from stem to stern without any doubt.
And the seas were running mountains high,
While the poor sailors, no doubt, heaved many a sigh;
Because they must have felt cold, and the schooner sprung a leak,
Still they wrought while their hearts were like to break.
Then the wind it sprang up in terrific fury again,
But the crew baled out the water with might and main;
But still the water fast on them did gain,
Yet the brave heroes disdained to complain.
On the morning of December the 4th she was scudding before a hurricane,
And the crew were exhausted, but managed the poop to gain;
And the vessel was tossed like a cork on the wave,
While the brave crew expected to meet with a watery grave.
And huge beams and pine planks were washed overboard,
While Captain Tilton looked on and said never a word;
And the crew likewise felt quite content,
Until the fore-and-aft rigging overboard went.
Then loudly for help to God they did cry,
And to their earnest prayer He did draw nigh;
And saved them from a watery grave,
When help from Him they did crave.
Poor souls they expected to be engulfed every hour,
And to appease their hunger they made dough with salt water and flour;
And made a sort of hard cake placed over a griddle hole,
To satisfy their hunger, which, alas! is hard to thole.
And two of these cakes each man got per day,
Which the poor creatures devoured in a ravenous way;
Along with a little fresh water to wash it down,
Which they most thankfully praised God for and didn't frown.
And on the 10th of December when they had burned their last light,
The ship "Orinoco" bound for New York hove in sight;
And they were rescued safely and taken on board,
And they thanked the Captain, and likewise the Lord.
Then the Captain of the "Orinoco" ordered her to be set on fire,
Which was quickly done as he did desire;
Which caused the rescued crew to stare in amaze,
And to take the last look of their schooner in a blaze.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Great Escape
The Cook’s Escape
As cook on a ship I hated her crew, rats posing as seafarers.
A night when the ship passed by the shores of Panama, and
I saw my chance. Loosened the ships raft and as it glided into
the sea I jumped after. Moon lit night I sat dreaming listening
to the song of the sea. In its embrace I fell asleep when I woke
the raft was tugging a beautiful white strand. The locals were
frying red snappers with lemon juice for breakfast. I thought
of the crew, thugs from hell, had to make their own breakfast.
This glorious morning I was free of the sea and narrow minded
men who had never read a book and whose idea of pleasure
was a harbour whore. Yet, such is the pull of the ocean that
I still dream of its sun showy surface, on days when her crew
was resting on their scruffy rust dirty cabins. Yet, know I know
the fault was mine not seeing their despair.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Wrath
Day, night, distinction obscured.
By flashes of Nature’s wrath, illuminated.
Naught but nimbus rack, agitated blackness.
All, including immortal Gods, seek shelter.
Is this illustration of elements?
Voicing contempt at ignorant disrespect,
of the sea’s, invincible might?
Indiscriminately, does the deep wreck havoc?
With mounting animosity, the sea seethes.
Displaying disregard, emits unbridled fury.
Demonstrating visibly, obvious fact.
Defense none, shall triumph o’er her ire.
To the sea’s might, the ship, minuscule speck.
Makes tedious way toward the nearest haven.
From angry tempest’s clutches, escape she attempts.
Escape, to the calm of safe harbor.
Visible stern reprisal, fuming sea dispatches.
Intimidated, a wise retreat, the crew mounts.
To the however brief shelter,
the pitching, rolling, craft provides.
Their craft’s Master, himself at the helm.
Coaxes forth all the power,
the straining engines can produce.
To maintain way, evading, devastation obvious.
Topping swell’s alpine crest, this ship,
hesitating but an instant’s span, to see.
A light fleeting, glimmers bright.
Could safe haven, be not far?
Wrestling mightily with the helm.
“Yes! I see the sign! ” he barked,
To only the spirits, inhabiting darkened bridge.
The Skipper’s voice apparent.
With visible, manifest of compassion.
The sea relents, wavers in its frenzy.
Seizing the opportunity presented.
Toward breach in white surf, the craft races.
From raging sea, and Death’s door,
to the calm of secure haven.
Escape, from tempest to solace.
Storm weary vessel makes her break.
09Mar09
poem by Kurt Hearth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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House Carpenter
Well met, well met, said an old true love
Well met, well met, said he
I just returned from the salt, salt sea
And its all for the love of thee
Come in, come in, my own true love
And have a seat by me
Its been three-fourths of a long, long year
Since together we have been
I cant come in and I cant sit down
For Ive only a moments time
They say youre married to a house carpenter
And your heart will never be mine
I couldve married the kings daughter fair
And she wouldve married me
But I have forsaken, her crowns of gold
And all for the love of thee
Now will you forsake your house carpenter
And come along with me
Ill take you where, the grass grows green
On the banks of the deep blue sea
Then she picked up her darling little babe
And kisses she gave it three
Saying stay right here you darling little babe
And keep your pop company
They had not been on the ship two weeks
Im sure it was not three
Til this true love began to weep and to mourn
And she wept most bitterly
Saying are you weeping for my silver and my gold?
Saying are you weeeping for my store?
Or are you weeping, for your house carpenter
Whose face youll never see no more?
I am not weeping for your silver and your gold
I am not weeping for your store
No I am weeping, for my darling little babe
Whose face ill never see no more
They had not been on the ship three weeks
Im sure it was not four
When there came a leak, in the bottom of the ship
And sank them for to rise no more
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's About The Craft
It's about the craft.
And a consistency applied,
To prefect its presentation...
One who has no hesitation,
To sacrifice time.
Without a seeking for devices,
That provides an easy ride.
It's about the craft!
And those who are up to the task,
Need not to answer when asked...
What for them is thirsted first.
It's about the craft,
That has such a holding grasp...
No one can loosen to have it released.
'That's deep!
But what is it that has a hold on someone,
One knows and prefers to keep? '
A love for what it is,
One does.
With a seeking to reach greater heights.
'Wouldn't it be easier if you lowered your expectations? '
Who's craft is this?
You do...
As 'you' wish!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Craft Of Life
I tried to study it for just a while:
All of the potions, from oysters to seducing smiles.
But I've found it's already inside me:
A big round bubble of sensuality,
Dared to be burst,
But worried about getting hurt.
I know how you like to kiss.
I'll ask you what you're thinking.
Silvers in our dark hair.
The sheets are soaked by your tiny fish.
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
Oo-ooh...
Tears spring to mind when I go back in time.
All those lost bodies just seeking security.
Jittering strangers with smutting hands,
Heavy and clever and full of demands.
Well I'm similar to you:
We're familiar with what to do.
I know how you like to kiss.
I'll ask you what you're thinking.
Silvers in our dark hair.
The sheets are soaked by your tiny fish.
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
The craft of life,
Oo-ooh...
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Irish Rover
On the Fourth of July, 1806
We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork
We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks
For the Grand City Hall in New York
'Twas a wonderful craft
She was rigged fore and aft
And oh, how the wild wind drove her
She stood several blasts
She had twenty seven masts
And they called her The Irish Rover
We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags
We had two million barrels of stone
We had three million sides of old blind horses hides
We had four million barrels of bones
We had five million hogs
And six million dogs
Seven million barrels of porter
We had eight million bails of old nanny-goats' tails
In the hold of the Irish Rover
There was awl Mickey Coote
Who played hard on his flute
When the ladies lined up for a set
He was tootin' with skill
For each sparkling quadrille
Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet
With his smart witty talk
He was cock of the walk
And he rolled the dames under and over
They all knew at a glance
When he took up his stance
That he sailed in The Irish Rover
There was Barney McGee
From the banks of the Lee
There was Hogan from County Tyrone
There was Johnny McGurk
Who was scared stiff of work
And a man from Westmeath called Malone
There was Slugger O'Toole
Who was drunk as a rule
And Fighting Bill Treacy from Dover
And your man, Mick MacCann
From the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover
We had sailed seven years
When the measles broke out
And the ship lost its way in the fog
And that whale of a crew
Was reduced down to two
Just myself and the Captain's old dog
Then the ship struck a rock
Oh Lord! what a shock-aca
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The
One moonlit night a ship drove in,
A ghost ship from the west,
Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,
Like a mermaid drest
In long green weed and barnacles:
She beached and came to rest.
All the watchers of the coast
Flocked to view the sight,
Men and women streaming down
Through the summer night,
Found her standing tall and ragged
Beached in the moonlight.
Then one old woman looked and wept
'The 'Alice Jean'? But no!
The ship that took my Dick from me
Sixty years ago
Drifted back from the utmost west
With the ocean's flow?
'Caught and caged in the weedy pool
Beyond the western brink,
Where crewless vessels lie and rot
in waters black as ink.
Torn out again by a sudden storm
Is it the 'Jean', you think?'
A hundred women stared agape,
The menfolk nudged and laughed,
But none could find a likelier story
For the strange craft.
With fear and death and desolation
Rigged fore and aft.
The blind ship came forgotten home
To all but one of these
Of whom none dared to climb aboard her:
And by and by the breeze
Sprang to a storm and the 'Alice Jean'
Foundered in frothy seas.
poem by Robert Graves
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Sonnet: Life’s Ambitions
If Life's a ship at sea with rafts and sail;
Our ambitions, the crew who steer it through;
And chance comes as a Wind or mighty gale,
That gives us success or our waterloo.
How must our Captain, Mind order his crew?
'The ship could sink, So, jump aboard, some men',
Keep ready the life-boats for saving few;
The rest can pray to God for quick haven.
Control, we must our desires, in life,
Our ambitions, need not be successful;
Life's safety first is what we choose in strife,
On Doomsday, soul must not be still sinful.
We aim to do the best we can on earth,
But ultimately, we aim for God's Mirth.
poem by John Celes
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Sea Rogues
Out in the sea, in the rough waves
A ruffian galleon in pursuit of ill-gotten wealth
Its crew of sea rogues out for stealing
They are led by a dark-hearted captain, Captain Health
This crew goes about stealing and killing
A terrible life for which they crave
A merchant galleon, they spotted
The ruffian ship on hot heels of the rich-laden ship
Moving forth at a speed to get closer
The ship of bandits had the merchant ship within its grip
The other ship, filled with chaos, disorder
Robbed clean and dry, the ship had bloodshed
Taking everything they’ve stolen
The sea rogues rejoiced with the prized stolen items
For celebration, they drank rounds of rum
To have amassed jewels, gems of great desire to them
Sang songs of the seas, played with pipes and drums
This is a sea life, they see as golden
They set sail towards land for keeps
Going at a great speed, the galleon headed west
The days went by, until they reached the shores
The rogues rejoiced, their journey laid to rest
Packing the stolen riches was the chore
The sea rogues had them treasured somewhere deep
The stolen riches are kept somewhere
Buried in one of the caves in a lonely terrain
Far away from the society’s reach
All these to make sure that no treasure is lost in vain
Then the sea rogues set out into the beach
Out into the sea, for more robbery there
poem by Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
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Ship Of Love Valentine
The ship of love where hearts sail free
The ship of love is where you want to be.
It will take you on a valentine cruise
Where no heart will ever lose.
The ship will dock at all ports of love
Where cupids will come from up above.
They'll shoot their arrows at all who arrive
And you will find your love divine.
The ports of love are every where
On land, sea and in the air.
The ship of love is world wide bound
And you will find it all around.
So take this trip along with me
And your heart will be so free.
poem by Louis Rams
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The Ballad of the 'Britain's Pride
It was a skipper of Lowestoft
That trawled the northern sea,
In a smack of thrice ten tons and seven,
And the
Britain's Pride
was she.
And the waves were high to windward,
And the waves were high to lee,
And he said as he lost his trawl-net,
'What is to be, will be.'
His craft she reeled and staggered,
But he headed her for the hithe,
In a storm that threatened to mow her down
As grass is mown by the scythe;
When suddenly through the cloud-rift
The moon came sailing soft,
And he saw one mast of a sunken ship
Like a dead arm held aloft.
And a voice came faint from the rigging-
'Help! help!' it whispered and sighed-
And a single form to the sole mast clung,
In the roaring darkness wide.
Oh the crew were but four hands all told,
On board of the
Britain's Pride
,
And ever 'Hold on till daybreak!'
Across the night they cried.
Slowly melted the darkness,
Slowly rose the sun,
And only the lad in the rigging
Was left, out of thirty-one,
To tell the tale of his captain,
The English sailor true,
That did his duty and met his death
As English sailors do.
Peace to the gallant spirit,
The greatly proved and tried,
And to all who have fed the hungry sea
That is still unsatisfied;
And honour and glory for ever,
While rolls the unresting tide,
To the skipper of little Lowestoft,
And the crew of the
Britain's Pride
.
poem by William Watson
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