The Story Of A Round-House And Other Poems Part 15

CARGOES

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peac.o.c.ks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green sh.o.r.es, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, b.u.t.ting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

CAPTAIN STRATTON'S FANCY

Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight; But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench; But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose, But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows; For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice, And some are all for red lips, and pretty la.s.ses' eyes; But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some that's good and G.o.dly ones they hold that it's a sin To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin; But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits, And there's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes; So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots, Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG

I saw a s.h.i.+p a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold; And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold; The summer wind was failing and the tall s.h.i.+p rolled.

I saw a s.h.i.+p a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering, Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.

I saw a s.h.i.+p a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking, With glittering sea-water splas.h.i.+ng on her decks, With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks, The broken gla.s.s was c.h.i.n.king as she sank among the wrecks.

ST. MARY'S BELLS

It's pleasant in Holy Mary By San Marie lagoon, The bells they chime and jingle From dawn to afternoon.

They rhyme and chime and mingle, They pulse and boom and beat, And the laughing bells are gentle And the mournful bells are sweet.

Oh, who are the men that ring them, The bells of San Marie, Oh, who but sonsie seamen Come in from over sea, And merrily in the belfries They rock and sway and hale, And send the bells a-jangle, And down the l.u.s.ty ale.

It's pleasant in Holy Mary To hear the beaten bells Come booming into music, Which throbs, and clangs, and swells, From sunset till the daybreak, From dawn to afternoon.

In port of Holy Mary On San Marie lagoon.

LONDON TOWN

Oh London Town's a fine town, and London sights are rare, And London ale is right ale, and brisk's the London air, And busily goes the world there, but crafty grows the mind, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to leave behind.

Then hey for croft and hop-yard, and hill, and field, and pond, With Breden Hill before me and Malvern Hill beyond.

The hawthorn white i' the hedgerow, and all the spring's attire In the comely land of Teme and Lugg, and Clent, and Clee, and Wyre.

Oh London girls are brave girls, in silk and cloth o' gold, And London shops are rare shops, where gallant things are sold, And bonnily clinks the gold there, but drowsily blinks the eye, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry by.

Then, hey for covert and woodland, and ash and elm and oak, Tewkesbury inns, and Malvern roofs, and Worcester chimney smoke, The apple trees in the orchard, the cattle in the byre, And all the land from Ludlow town to Bredon church's spire.

Oh London tunes are new tunes, and London books are wise, And London plays are rare plays, and fine to country eyes, But craftily fares the knave there, and wickedly fares the Jew, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry through.

So hey for the road, the west road, by mill and forge and fold, Scent of the fern and song of the lark by brook, and field, and wold, To the comely folk at the hearth-stone and the talk beside the fire, In the hearty land, where I was bred, my land of heart's desire.

THE EMIGRANT

Going by Daly's shanty I heard the boys within Dancing the Spanish hornpipe to Driscoll's violin, I heard the sea-boots shaking the rough planks of the floor, But I was going westward, I hadn't heart for more.

All down the windy village the noise rang in my ears, Old sea boots stamping, shuffling, it brought the bitter tears, The old tune piped and quavered, the lilts came clear and strong, But I was going westward, I couldn't join the song.

There were the grey stone houses, the night wind blowing keen, The hill-sides pale with moonlight, the young corn springing green, The hearth nooks lit and kindly, with dear friends good to see, But I was going westward, and the s.h.i.+p waited me.

PORT OF HOLY PETER

The blue laguna rocks and quivers, Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin, The climate does for people's livers, It's a nasty place to anchor in Is Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter.

The town begins on the sea-beaches, And the town's mad with the stinging flies, The drinking water's mostly leeches, It's a far remove from Paradise Is Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter.

There's sand-bagging and throat-slitting, And quiet graves in the sea same, Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting, Dirt, and drink, and stink, and crime, In Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter.

All the day the wind's blowing From the sick swamp below the hills, All the night the plague's growing, And the dawn brings the fever chills, In Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter.

You get a thirst there's no slaking, You get the chills and fever-shakes, Tongue yellow and head aching, And then the sleep that never wakes.

And all the year the heat's baking, The sea rots and the earth quakes, In Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter.