Читать книгу Salt-Water Ballads - John 1878-1967 Masefield - Страница 3
ОглавлениеA 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!
