PREFACE

Among the songs in this collection are the Brand New Ballads already known more or less to the public, several of them having an American newspaper circulation, while a few are given at times in public readings; since I have learned, for example, that “In Nevada” was one of the stock-pieces of Mr. Clifford Harrison. They now reappear amended and with additions.

In the “Songs of the Sea” the reader will not fail to observe that three or four, such as the “Mermaid” and “Time for Us to Go,” are not by me at all. They are sailors’ songs of the olden time, introduced as suggestions for other lyrics, as I have indeed declared in the text, and also to aid in the main purpose or idea which inspires the whole collection—they being in this respect like stones from more ancient edifices built into new houses, as was the wont of men in the middle age.

This main purpose was to set forth with scrupulous care, as of a statue photographed from many sides, the mariner of the sailing—not steaming—ship, who is now rapidly passing away, although some tens of thousands of the species are still to be found in the remoter routes of travel. This kind of man should be interesting, because he is almost the only one who is drawn into his calling by a desire to rove about the world and lead an adventurous, reckless, manly life. Into this life entered, I may say, as “vitalising elements,” “shipwrecks and disasters of the sea,” the extremes of discipline and dissipation, as well as those of cynical scepticism and superstition, the seeing, like Ulysses, cities and men, and the consciousness, so clear to undeveloped minds and smaller natures, of belonging to a “peculiar” class. This I have borne in mind most earnestly, and those who perceive it will also find that in this spirit the following notes and sketches in song illustrate, I trust accurately, a consistent ideal text, and that all the songs unite to form a single poem.

As for the many scraps, “chanties,” choruses, sayings, similes, and bits of sea-lore worked up into the lyrics here and there, I make no attempt whatever to indicate what is borrowed; all that I can say of it is, that if the mere gathering the stones is all the merit of making a mosaic picture (as many seem to think), then I could claim little merit for originality. But as this is not a folk-lore book, in which a writer is held sternly accountable “to give authority for every word,” and as a mass of notes would have simply defeated the whole aim of the book, I have preferred making myself amenable to the charge of plagiarism to boring my reader—even as an Italian devoted servant of whom I once heard, preferred to be carried off by the police, on the charge of stealing oranges, rather than awaken and disturb his master who could have explained the matter. I can, however, truly say that as regards ideas, incidents, tales, turns of speech and idioms, current sayings, and so on, from poetry down to vulgarity, I have literally taken so much from sailors themselves that the work, if analysed, would be a curiosity of collocation, like the poems made up entirely of proverbs, or the Sermon of Texts.

Here I would mention my obligation to more than one ancient mariner, and specially to my old friend, Captain Stead, now so long a dweller at the Langham Hotel, for advising about, and revising, these ballads. These friends having carefully studied the work and corrected or modelled its every sentence into ship-shape, have been kind enough to assure me that it would hold its own in the forecastle, as a real thing, and not an imitation; which saying uttered in sooth and truth especially by a friend of forty years’ experience in sailing-vessels, mostly “before the war,” was to me greatly encouraging.

What I have above written of the “Songs of the Sea” is equally true of the other ballads in this volume. They also form a series of eccentric pictures of American life after the war, brought together, not like chance pictures in a scrap-book, but as I before said, to carry out one idea in reference to a special subject. In this spirit and to this end were they written, from current prose tales. Nor have I ever forgotten that there is in them for the future a kind of folk-lore which is never so apparent to those who live in it as to those who inherit it. When I was a small boy, there was in my aunt’s kitchen in Milford, Massachusetts, a cheese-knife, which had no special interest to anybody save to me, because it had been the very sword carried by General Eaton in his famous march over the Desert to attack Algiers. Nowadays it would be greatly prized. So it is sometimes worth while to think of these things which we now possess, and how rapidly they are hastening to become curiosities—I myself having lived to see every object familiar to me in youth become bric-à-brac. In the last age, everything not in the newest fashion was despised—in this there is a highly-cultured class just beginning to show itself beyond the Realists and disciples of Mental-analytical Chemistry, who look alternately at the Past and Future,

There may be a few among the jealous guardians or spokes around the Hub who may demand by what right I invade the sacred precincts of Boston, and sing about its past. Well, my boyhood was half passed in Boston or near it; there the romance of sailor life, which was marvellous in those times, imbued me, and then and there in common with my mates I devoured the Mariners’ Chronicle, Shipwrecks and Disasters of the Sea, Lives of the Buccaneers, and listened with avidity to the tales of those who had been on the briny deep. Nearly all my first-cousins had at one time or other run away and gone to sea or taken long voyages. Among the former were Benjamin Stimson, the “S” of Two Years Before the Mast; Charles Leland, who afterwards grew like Samuel Jackson to the height of seven feet; and Samuel Godfrey. From these and many more I learned an incredible number of sea stories and songs, none of which I ever forgot, being to an extraordinary degree accustomed to keep repeating to myself these “stranger legends of the olden time.” Hence it comes that I have in my mind such vivid memories of the old North End of Boston.

I would say in conclusion what will be apparent enough to many, that these Ballads make no great pretence to be poetry. They consist of incidents or small “motives” cast into rhyme or measure, as the easiest method of giving them a certain value, just as a tune brings out a song. Most rhymers are criticised more or less severely for pretending to be poets; all that I can claim for this volume is, that it is a kind of collection of curiosities which, as they have seemed to me to be worth remembering, will, I trust, be regarded by others as worth reading.

Charles Godfrey Leland.

Florence, 1894.

SONGS OF THE SEA

LAYS OF THE LAND

SONGS OF THE SEA

In the North End of Boston, long ago;

Although ’tis yet within my memory;

There were of gabled houses many a row,

With overhanging storeys two or three,

And many with half-doors over whose end

Leaning upon her elbows, the good-wife

At eventide conversed with many a friend

Of all the little chances of their life;

Small ripples in a stream which ran full slow

In the North End of Boston, long ago.

And ’mid these houses was a Hostelrie

Frequented by the people of the sea,

Known as the Boy and Barrel, from its sign:

A jolly urchin on a cask of wine

Bearing the words which puzzled every eye—

Orbus In Tactu Mainet^[1] Heaven knows why.

Even there a bit of Latin made a show,

In the North End of Boston—long ago.

And many a sailor, when his cruise was o’er,

Bore straight for it soon as he touched the shore:

In many a stormy night upon the sea

He’d thought upon the Boy—and of the spree

He’d have when there, and let all trouble go,

In the North End of Boston, long ago.

There, like their vessels in a friendly port,

Met many mariners of every kind,

Spinning strange yarns of many a varied sort,

Well sheltered from the ocean and the wind;

In a long low dark room they lounged at ease;

Strange men there were from many a distant land,

And there above the high old chimney-piece

Were curiosities from many a strand,

Which often made strange tales and memories flow

In the North End of Boston, long ago.

And there I often sat to hear those tales,

From men who’d passed through storm and fight and fire,

Of mighty icebergs and stupendous whales,

Of shipwrecked crews and of adventures dire,

Until the thought came to me on a time,

While I was listening to that merry throng,

That I would write their stories out in rhyme,

And weave into it many a sailor’s song,

That men might something of the legends know

Of the North End of Boston, long ago.

First it was said that Captain Kidd in truth

Had revelled in that tavern with his crew,

And there it was he lost the Golden Tooth

Which brought him treasure, and the gossips knew

Moll Pitcher dwelt there in the days of yore,

And Peter Rugg had stopped before the door:

Tom Walker there did with the Devil go

In the North End of Boston, long ago.

Nor had I long to wait, for at the word

Some one observed that he had seen in Spain

A captain hung—which Abner Chapin heard

And said, “I too upon the Spanish Main

Met with a man well known unto us all,

Who nearly hung a Captain General.”

He told the tale and I did rhyme it so;

In the North End of Boston, long ago.

         When there’s rain and shine together,

                Chorus. Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam is in the weather:

                Chorus. Yo heave ho!

         When the sun shines through a fog,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Samuel drinks his grog:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the blue sky shows in pieces,

                Yo heave ho!

         Those are Uncle Samuel’s breeches:

                Yo heave ho!

         When a cloud is low and flat,

                Yo heave ho!

         That is Uncle Samuel’s hat:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the wind is loud and bad,

                Yo heave ho!

         Then Old Sam is getting mad:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the wind begins to bellow,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam is in the cellar:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the sky is clean and red,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam is gone to bed:

                Yo heave ho!

         When you hear the wind a-roaring,

                Yo heave ho!

         That is Uncle Sam a-snoring:

                Yo heave ho!

         When you see the lightning spooning,

                Yo heave ho!

         Then old Uncle Sam’s harpooning:

                Yo heave ho!

         When you hear the wind a-barking,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam has gone a-sharking:

                Yo heave ho!

         When you see a santo-corpus,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam is arter a porpus:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the water gabbles too much,

                Yo heave ho!

         Uncle Sam is talking Dutch:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the sea hawk’s scream is heard,

                Yo heave ho!

         He wants to know if there’s Dutch on board:

                Yo heave ho!

         When the wind’s before the rain,

                Yo heave ho!

         Soon you can make sail again:

                Yo heave ho!

“Belay that song I say—’tis gettin’ weary:”

Cried out a voice, “Let’s change to Mother Carey!”

         With the wind old Mother Carey,

                Yo ho oh!

         Churns the sea to make her dairy:

                Yo ho oh!

         When you see a storm a-brewin’,

                Yo ho oh!

         That is Mother Carey’s doin’:

                Yo ho oh!

         When you see Mother Carey’s chickens,

                Yo ho oh!

         Then look out to catch the dickens!

                Yo ho oh!

         When you hear the icebergs rattle,

                Yo ho oh!

         Those are Mother Carey’s cattle:

                Yo ho oh!

         When you see them split—a-halving,

                Yo ho oh!

         Then Mother Carey’s cows are calving:

                Yo ho oh!

         When you see a flying fish,

                Yo ho oh!

         Lose no time but make your wish:

                Yo ho oh!

         Irish pennons when they’re flying,

                Yo ho oh!

         Set old Mother Carey crying:

                Yo ho oh!

         When the sea-gulls dip for slush,

                Yo ho oh!

         Mother Carey stirs the mush:

                Yo ho oh!

         When one sea-gull follows you,

                Yo ho oh!

         Mother Carey soon makes it two:

                Yo ho oh!

         When the sea-gulls fly by two,

                Yo ho oh!

         Soon good luck will come to you:

                Yo ho oh!

         When the sea-gulls fly by threes,

                Yo ho oh!

         Soon you’ll have a spanking breeze:

                Yo ho oh!

         If seven follow you into port,

                Yo ho oh!

         There the sailors’ll have good sport:

                Yo ho oh!

         When a rope trails in the water,

                Yo ho oh!

         That is Mother Carey’s garter:

                Yo ho oh!

         When the clouds are red as roses,

                Yo ho oh!

         Those are Mother Carey’s posies:

                Yo ho oh!

         If you want to win your Mary,

                Yo ho oh!

         Throw out a biscuit to Mother Carey:

                Yo ho oh!

And so they would have chantyd all night long,

But some one broke it with another song.

      The Albatross

      Is the captain and boss,

            Haul away boys, haul away!

      The sea-gull queers

      Are the officeers,

            Haul away boys, haul away!

      And the Carey chickens as I guess

      Is every one an A.B.S.,

            Haul away boys, haul away!

“I’ve heard,” said Chapin, “many folk agree,

Those birds are souls of sailors lost at sea,

      And often one around the vessel flies

      To give us warning ere the storms arise.”

      “Talkin’ of spirits in the vasty deep,”

      Said Ezra Bullard, late of Marblehead,

      “There’s one at least who never goes to sleep,

      And mighty little good of him is said;

      His special dispensation is to watch

      The bottom of the ocean, and to see

      It don’t fall out—for if it did we catch

      The very direst kind of misery,

      For all the water runnin’ through the hole

      Would leave it dry as you can understand,

      And from the Arctic to the ’tother pole,

      ’Twould be one thunderin’ lot of empty land.”

      And thereupon in his south-wester tones

      He let us have the song of Davy Jones.

Down in the sea among sand and stones,

There lives the old fellow called Davy Jones.

When storms come up he sighs and groans,

And that is the singing of Davy Jones.

His chest is full of dead men’s bones,

And that is the locker of Davy Jones.

Davy is Welsh you may hear by his tones,

For a regular Welsher is Davy Jones.

Whenever a fish gets drowned, he moans,

So tender-hearted is Davy Jones.

Thousands of ships the old man owns,

But none go a-sailing for Davy Jones.

“Well—since you talk o’ the bottom of the sea,”

Said Enoch Doolittle of Salem town,

“I know a yarn that beats you full and free,

Because, d’ye know, it takes you deeper down,

And if you’re taken down—of course you’re beat.”

“That’s so,” cried all, “so now your yarn repeat!”

“All right,” quoth Doolittle, “I’ll serve it hot,

Because, d’ye see, it’s called The Devil’s Pot.

But ’fore I dive into the salty brine,

Give me a gill of white New England wine!

Take one all round to benefit the pub.

Now for the bottom of the pickle tub.”

There’s a place where you see the Atlantic heave

Like water boiling hot;

Where you come with grief and with joy you leave,

And they call it the Devil’s Pot.

Now there was a witch in the good old time,

And she had such power, they say,

Through rocks or stones or sand or lime,

She could always make her way.

One night on a broom she went with a whirr;

The devil he saw her fly,

And the devil he fell in love with her

As she went sailing by.

She flew like the devil to scape away,

And the devil so did he,

And she jumped from her broom without delay

And she dived to the bottom of the sea.

And she bored a hole when she got down,

And round and round she twirled,

And closed it behind as she went on,

Till she went straight through the world.

And the devil he dived in the water deep,

And he made it boil like pitch

As he roared and raved with many a leap,

But he never could find the witch.

And still he stirs it by night and day,

And seeks and finds her not;

And that is the reason, the sailors say,

Why it’s called the Devil’s Pot.

“They say that there are witches everywhere,”

Said Jones of Chesapeake, “a livin’ free;

Some in the rocks, some flyin’ in the air,

And some, in course, like fishes in the sea.

I’ve often heard strange voices in the night—

They wan’t no birds I’ll swer, nor any sitch—

One called me once by name; it gim’me fright—

And that I’m sartin was a water-witch.

One can’t in nat’ral wise account for that,

All you can call it is a Mr. E——

But there are witches, I will bet a hat;

And so I’ll sing the song of One, Two, Three,

Fust drinkin’ all your healths,”—no more he said,

But in a good round voice went straight ahead:

I saw three witches as the wind blew cold

In a red light to the lee;

Bold they were and over-bold

As they sailed over the sea;

      Calling for One, Two, Three!

      Calling for One, Two, Three!

      And I think I can hear

      It a-ringing in my ear,

      A-calling for the One, Two, Three.

And clouds came over the sky,

And the wind it blew hard and free,

And the waves grew bold and over-bold

As we sailed over the sea;

      Howling for One, Two, Three!

      Howling for their One, Two, Three!

      Oh I think I can hear

      It a-ringing in my ear,

      A-howling for their One, Two, Three!

And the storm came roaring on,

Such a storm as I never did see,

And the storm it was bold and over-bold,

And as bad as a storm could be;

      A-roaring for its One, Two, Three!

      A-howling for its One, Two, Three!

      Oh I think I can hear

      It a-howling in my ear,

      A-growling for its One, Two, Three!

And a wave came over the deck,

As big as a wave could be,

And it took away the captain and the mate and a man:

It had got the One, Two, Three!

And it went with the One, Two, Three!

      Oh I think I can hear

      It a-rolling in my ear,

      As it went with the One, Two, Three.

This being cheered, I said, “Some time ago

I made a song in the Italian tongue

About a witch and pirate—which for you

Shall, if you like, be now in English sung.”

“No, give it first,” cried Saltonstall, “by jingo!

In its own nateral, Eyetalian lingo;

What I don’t know of it ain’t worth a cent;

Even to Rome I several times have went,

In Naples, too, I’ve had full many a turn

And know old Spartivento like a dern;

And most of us, I reckon—though we’re Yankee—

Can go the Dago, or some lingua frankey.

We ain’t so ignorant of what we know;

So go ahead, Signor—prestissimo!

Ef we don’t catch the sense ’twill be a pity.”—

So thus encouraged I began my ditty:

        Era una bella strega

        Che si bagnava alla riva;

        Vennero i pirati,

        Lei presero captiva.

        Il vento era in poppa,

        Sull’onde la nave ballò,

        La donna lacrimante

        Al capitan parlò:

        “O Signor Capitano!

        O Capitan’ del mar!

        Daro cento ducati

        Se tu mi lasci andar!”

        “Non prenderò cento ducati,

        Tu costi molto più,

        Io te vendrò al Sultano,”

        Disse il Capitano

        “Per mille zecchini d’oro

        Vi stimi troppo giù.”

        “Non vuoi i cento ducati.

        Ebben, tu non gli avrai,

        Ho un’amante amato

        Non mi abbandona mai.”

        Essa sedé sul ponte,

        Principiò a cantar:

        “Vieni il mio amante!”

        Da lontano il vento

        Si mette a mugghiar.

        Forte e più forte

        La tempesta ruggio:

        Gridava il Capitano:

        “Io credo che il tuo amante

        E il vento che corre innante,

        Ovvero il diavolo.”

        Forte e più forte

        La procella urlò:

        “Sono roccie davanti,

        E il vento vien di dietro,

        Ben venuto sei tu, mio amante!”

        La bella donna cantò.

        “Vattene al tuo amante

        All’inferno a cantar!”

        Disse il Capitano,

        E gettò la donna fuori

        Della nave nel mar.

        Ma come un gabbiano

        Sull’onde essa volò:

        “O mio Capitano!

        Non sarai appiccato,

        Ma sarai annegato;

        Per sempre addio!”

“That’s derned good Dago,” cried Jack Saltonstall;

“Blamed ef I didn’t understand it all.

For the best songs are easiest understood:

Now then let’s hear if t’other side’s as good!

A song is like a bird—’cos birds do sing—

So carve us out the second breast and wing;

And with your anthem bid our hearts rejoice:”

Encouraged thus I lifted up my voice.

A pretty witch was bathing

By the beach one summer day;

There came a boat with pirates

Who carried her away.

The ship had a breeze behind her,

Over the waves went she!

“O Signor Capitano,

O Captain of the Sea!

I’ll give you a hundred ducats,

If you will set me free!”

“I will not take a hundred;

You’re worth much more, you know:

I’ll sell you to the Sultan

For a thousand golden sequins:

You put yourself far too low.”

“You will not take a hundred,

Very well then, let them be!

But I have a constant lover

Who, as you may discover,

Will never abandon me.”

On the deck, before the rover,

The witch began to sing:

“Oh come to me, my lover!”

And the wind as it stole over

Began to howl and ring.

Louder and ever louder

Became the tempest’s roar,

The captain in a passion

Thus at the lady swore:

“I believe that your windy lover

Is the devil and nothing more!”

Wilder and ever wilder

The tempest raged and rang,

“There are rocks ahead, and the wind dead aft,

Thank you, my love!” the lady laughed

As unto the wind she sang.

“Oh go with your cursed lover

To inferno to sing for me!”

So cried the angry captain,

And threw the lady over

To sink in the stormy sea.

But changing into a sea-gull

Over the waves she flew.

“O capitain, captain bold,” sang she,

“ ’Tis true you’ve missed the gallows tree,

But now you’ll drown in the foaming sea,

O captain, forever adieu!”

“Talkin’ of witches and magicianers,”

Cried out Jack Saltonstall of Newbury port,

“They are the devil’s own parishioners,

And I knew one of a peculiar sort,

Because he was a sailor—had he been

A lawyer, now, it wouldn’t seem so queer:

For conjurers ’mong us ain’t often seen,

And he was of the kind who ain’t small beer,

Possessing cash enough to roll in bliss:

However that may be, the story’s this.”

Once when I went upon a trip

Likewise to the Southern sea,

We had a man upon the ship

And a wonderful man was he.

A handsomer man I never did spy,

At home or in any port;

But there was something in his eye

Of a most peculiar sort.

And all in Trinidado’s port

Was a woman fair and rich,

With her my messmate did consort,

And I heard she was a witch.

Her eyes, like his, had a greenish glare,

They seemed to be quite of a level,

And the general look of the loving pair

Was exactly the look of the devil.

Now when it was time to up and lift,

And the ship must leave the docks,

He came aboard with her parting gift,

A brown little wooden box.

Now this man had hardly a shirt to his back,

When he started on this trip,

And the mate declared that such a Jack

Was a regular shame to the ship.

Then this man he winked a dreadful wink,

And said to the mate, “I’ll be floored:

But I’ve got more clothes in my box, I think,

Than all of the men on board.”

Now his box was only one foot square,

And what was our surprise

When he opened it and pulled out a pair

Of shirts before our eyes!

Next came a hat and a jacket blue,

With trousers of the best,

For everything was nice and new,

And so on with all the rest.

And when he was drest, all spick and span,

We observed upon our oaths

That we didn’t believe even our old man

Had got such a suit of clothes.

Twenty-four hours arter, I heard him say,

And I thought it was very strange:

“I never wear my clothes but a day

And now it is time to change.

“I make you a gift on ’em fair and plain,

With a quid of tobacco to boot.”

Sayin’ this he opened his box again,

And pulled out another new suit.

And the same thing happened the very next day,

At about the very same bells,

He took off his second suit so gay,

And gave it to somebody else.

So it happened every day again,

Till he’d rigged us all from his store;

And such a dandy lot of men

Were never in a ship before.

Then we never had any scrimmages

For fear of spilin’ our slops:

We looked like the graven images

Before the tailors’ shops.

But a man named Knox from Edinboro toun,

Always took the thing amiss,

And often remarked with a doubtful frown:

“There is something eereligious in this!”

So one day when our friend had opened his box,

Before we could prevent,

Up behind him came Mr. Knox

And dropped in his New Testament.

There came a flash of lightning bright,

And an awful thunder’s roar,

And the box and the sailor went clean out o’ sight,

And we never beheld ’em more.

And all to ashes and all to wreck

Went our clothes, and we looked forlorn,

For there we were standing on the deck

As naked as we were born!

And this is the lesson short and small,

Which we learned from our liberal friend,

That the things which cost you nothing at all

Never come to any good in the end.

And when the laugh at this had died away,

Mose Brown of Bristol in the whaling line

Said: “Mermaids are the witches of the sea,

Which in good looks are really superfine.

And on this subject I will give a song,

Which I daresay you all already know,

But anyway it isn’t very long,

Though it was made a hundred years ago,

I guess that mermaids were much plentier then;

Perhaps they’re scared of steamboats and the swell

Which drives the fish as foxes do a hen—

So like the steamers I will now propel.”

      One Friday morning we set sail^[3]

      It was not far from land,

      When I espied a fair mermaid,

      With a comb and a glass in her hand.

 Chorus. And the raging winds do blow, blow, blow,

        And the raging winds do blow;

        And we poor sailors climbing up aloft,

        And the land lubbers lying down below.

      Then up spoke the boy of our gallant ship

      And a well-spoken boy was he:

      “I’ve a mother and father in London town,

      And this night they will weep for me.”

      Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship,

      And a well-spoken man was he:

      “I’ve a wife who is living in Liverpool town,

      A wife whom I never shall see.”

      “My wife who is living in Liverpool town

      This night will be looking for me;

      She may look till the sun no more goes down,

      She may look to the bottom of the sea.”

      Then three times around went our gallant ship,

      And three times around went she;

      And three times around was the end of her trip,

      When she sank to the bottom of the sea.

Then another man said when that song was sung:

There are men like you and me,

Who will sometimes come ashore and get sprung,

Yet who live at the bottom of the sea.

For I myself knew one of that folk

(I believe he still lives and thrives),

And I’ll tell you the truth without any joke

How we saved one another’s blest lives.

I was walking one night in New York town,

And the moon shone bright and clear,

When I thought I heard a singular sound

That came from a board-yard near.

First was a groan of misery,

And then a scythe of pain;

And a voice which wailed: “Oh where is the Sea?

Which I never shall see again?”

And I thought that party must be cracked,

Or a little over the bay;

Because the water was not, in fact,

A half of a mile away.

So I looked that sufferin’ mortal up,

And found, sufficiently soon,

A man who looked like a perishin’ pup,

As he lay in the light of the moon.

And I said to him, “Matey, just confess

What all of this row’s about,

And what was it got you into this mess,

And how can I get you out?”

Then this man he opened his eyes so wide:

“No more do I ask of thee

Than to carry me down to the water’s side,

And chuck me right into the sea.”

And I says, “ ’Tis a singular thing to ask,

But I think it can be no sin,

And anyhow ’tis an easy task

To carry and pitch you in.”

So I picked that perishin’ person up,

And slewed him on my back,

And he wriggled and moved with many a flup

Like a codfish or a jack.

But when I had carried him half the way,

He seemed to be half-way done,

And when we had got ’longside of the bay,

I guessed that his life was gone.

But when he heard the water splash,

He opened his eyes—you bet!

And said: “If you only will make a dash—

Good Lord! there’s a chance for me yet!”

And when we came to the water’s edge,

I never a word did say,

But carried him right to the end of the Ledge,

And dumped him into the Bay.

And then he gin a yell of delight,

And then he warbled a tune,

As he swam about in the water bright,

All there in the light of the moon.

And he hollered to me his partin’ thanks,

And said: “I am outer my pain;

Good-bye! I’m off for the ’Foundland Banks;

Some day we shall meet again.”

Now when a year had passed I found

Myself in a Southern sea,

A-wrecked; for all on board were drowned,

And nobody saved but me.

And as I sat upon the turf,

And looked at the water blue,

A man came walking out of the surf,

And says to me: “How do you do?

“I think you don’t remember me,

Allow me to let you know

I’m the fellow that you threw into the sea—

In New York—a year ago.

“My home is down in the Ocean deep,

And sometimes—would you think?

I go ashore when men are asleep

To a tavern to take a drink.

“My mother was a mermaid fair,

She lived down in the sea;

And my father he was a Dutch sailór,

So it came that I am what I be.

“And I can walk about on land

Until my clothes are dry,

But that brings up to the end of my sand,

For then I must surely die:

“And my soul sail off for Doldrum Isle,

Unless some one pities my pain,

And carries me down where the waters bile,

And puts me in ’em again.

“One turn deserves another, ahoy!

And John must settle with Jack;

You treated me like a brother, old boy

And now I will pay you back.

“In this bag there is more than a thousand pound,

And I give it all to you:

In a Spanish galloon that money I found,

(It’s a thing which I frequently do).

“But in this place you’d be sure to spile,

So now I will give you a tip:

Just walk to the other side of this isle,

And there you will find a ship.

“You’ll find her there as sure as you’re born;

Her name is the Clara Belle,

She sails for Havanna in the morn,

So, matey—fare-you-well!

“Farewell—for here I cannot bide.”

He turned his back to the shore,

And walked right into the risin’ tide,

And I never beheld him more.

So we never should doubt of a mystery,

There are lots of ’em round us still;

For nobody knows what’s down in the sea,

And nobody ever will.

Said Brown, “That story now goes home to me.

Folks say a witch, a wizard, and a Finn,

Are all jint partners in all deviltry,

The Devil himself of course bein’ counted in;

And of these Northern conjurers I can sing

A song if you will join me in the chorus.

First take your drinks—that is the prudent thing,

We never know in life what lies before us.”

Which having done, himself he did begin

The wondrous ballad of the “Wizard Finn.”

As I suppose, you all have heard

There’s no good luck with a Finn on board,

I can tell you that is so.

I’ve sailed with one and I ought to know:

    For it is true, upon my word,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

Eric Jansen was his name,

And from Christián’ he came;

A seemly man all for to see,

But devil a bit the man for me:

    For it is true, as all have heard,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

From the hour he joined the ship,

All went wrong in all the trip;

’Twas nothing but swear and growl and groan,

And the weather was just the devil’s own:

    You may reckon it all absurd,

    But there’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

Our grub was spoiled from that first hour,

Except the vinegar all was sour;

All you heard was Lubber! and Liar!

And everything hot except the fire:

    For it is true, as all accord,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

For as the doctors all do know,

A Finn has fins between each toe:

He is web-footed like a duck;

Which is the cause of his bad luck:

    For it is true, as I averred,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

And when at last it got so bad,

That master and men were nigh gone mad,

A rummerin’ whisper did begin

That ’twas all along of this here Finn:

    For it is true, and on re-córd

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

And the long and short of this debate

Was that one night our second mate,

Bein’ as mad as a man might be,

Pitched Eric Jansen into the sea:

    For it is true, unless I’ve erred,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

When all at once around there came

Over the sea a greenish flame,

And the biggest whale I ever spied,

Rose up by Eric Jansen’s side:

    For it is true, as you may’ve inferred,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

And the Finn he got upon the whale,

And off in the flame we saw them sail;

Hearing a song as they fell behind,

Like women singing with the wind:

    For it is true, as all have concurred,

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

Off from the ship and off the shore,

And Eric Jansen we saw no more;

But from that hour, aboard that ship,

All went well for the rest of the trip:

    For it is true, upon my word,

    As you and I have often heard,

    People may say it’s all absurd,

    And yet it holds as I averred,

    And bein’ a fact it’s on recórd,

    Unless the best of men have erred,

    As you may truly have inferred,

    In which observers have concurred:

    There’s no good luck with a Finn on board.

“That story of the Finn,” said one to Brown,

“Is of the kind which hev been salted down,

Which is the reason, I suppose, why you

Take such a lot of pains to prove it’s true.

When tales are c’rect in all their fitnesses,

There ain’t no need of forty witnesses,

Nor one at all I guess, but that’s enough;

Now listen to the song of ‘Charley Buff,’

Who always said, ‘I am a truthful man:’ ”

He polished off his drink and thus began:

         Oh Charley Buff was his parents’ joy,

           And as he always told,

         He went to sea as a cabin-boy

           Before he was one year old.

  Chorus. Now this is pretty bad,

           But it’s nothin’ to what’s a-coming:

         Yet Charley he was a truthful lad,

           And never indulged in humming.

         And this Charley Buff allays said to me:

           “To lie I cannot afford,

         For you know I hev got more truth in me

           Than all of the rest on board.

         “I have seen in the isle of Barriboo

           Such high-sized coco-nuts,

         That the natives used to split ’em in two

           And use ’em to make their huts.

         “I hev seen the Kanaka women

           Foller a ship’n full sail,

         A thousand miles a-swimmin’

           For a bottle or a tenpenny nail.

         “I hev seen the eggs of the toodly-wang;

           It’s a bird in the Muldive Isles;

         And when they hatch they burst with a bang

           You can hear five hundred miles.

         “From a Cariboo king named Jocko,

           A man of cheerful life,

         For only a fid of tobacco

           I bought me a beautiful wife.

         “One night she was gone, by gum!

           But as soon as ever I missed her,

         From the king for a glass of rum

           I bought her younger sister.

         “One evening for their tea

           Her family broiled and ate her;

         ‘Never mind!’ says the king to me,

           ‘Just go and pick out a better.’ ”

  Chorus. Now this is pretty bad,

           Yet it’s nothin’ to what’s a-coming;

         But I hear the old man a bawlin’ like mad,

           So I guess I will stop my humming.

“Wal,” answered Brown, “that comes it rather strong.

Now if you like I’ll sing a pirate’s song

Of which you all have heard at times a bit;

I’ve jined ’em into one to make ’em fit,

Like beads upon a string, altho’ I fear

It’s partly pirate and part mutineer.”

        Bold Robin Rover

          Said to his crew:

        “Up with the black flag

          And down with the blue!

        Up with the Black Boy!

          All men to show,

        Over the water

          And off let us go!”

        A man-of-war he hailed us:

          “Come under my lee!”

        “See you damned,” said the pirate,

          “For I’d rather sink at sea,

        In the blue water

          Far out and free,

        Cruising down on the shore

          By the coast of Barbary.”

        We met the Flying Dutchman,

          By midnight he came,

        His hull was all of hell fire,

          His sails were all o’ flame;

        Fire on the main-top,

          Fire on the bow,

        Fire on the gun-deck,

          Fire down below!

        Four-and-twenty dead men,

          Those were the crew,

        The devil on the bowsprit

          Fiddled as she flew.

        We gave her a broadside

          Right in the dip,

        Just like a candle,

          Out went the ship.

        We met a gallant vessel

          A-sailing on the sea,

        For mercy, for mercy,

          For mercy, she did plea;

        But the mercy we gave her

          We sunk her in the sea;

        Cruising down on the shore

          By the coast of Barbary,

        Four-and-twenty Spaniards,

          Mighty men of rank,

        With their golden ladies

          Had to walk the plank,

        Over the gunwale

          Into the sea,

        Cruising down on the shore,

          By the coast of Barbary.

        Oh devil take the captain!

          And devil take the ship!

        And devil take the cargo!

          And devil take the trip!

        And devil take the bo’su’n!

          And devil take his call!

        And devil take the doctor!

          And devil take ’em all!

        Over the quarter,

          Over the sail,

        Into the water,

          Dead as a nail,

        Slung like a biscuit,

          Hot as a coal,

        Where the sharks may take the body,

          And the devil take the soul!

Then spoke Grim Sam of Jersey, “As we’ve heard

A mermaid or a witch is the same bird,

But of a different feather, so a pirate,

And slaver, is all one for guards to fire at,

For pirates kill and plunder all they catch,

And slavers at the same are just their match;

There ain’t no special difference” (it was said

That Sam himself well knew the Guinea trade,

And half-way to the devil had sent his soul

By running into Cuba “sacks of coal”)—

And then he sang to us right merrily

A slaver’s song, which was not writ by me.

Said Paul unto Peter,

“I see a muskeeter,

    The boat’s coming over the bay.”

Said Peter to Paul,

“She is saucy, though small,

    And the captain is sailing away.”

Said Paul unto Peter,

“Confound the old creetur,

    The boat’s coming over the bay.”

Said Peter to Paul,

“We will soon make her squall,

    And the captain is sailing away.”

Said Paul unto Peter,

“We’ll bang her and beat her!

    The boat’s coming over the bay.”

Said Peter to Paul,

“Set stun’sles and all,

    And the captain is sailing away.”

Said Paul unto Peter,

“We’ll give her short metre,

    The boat’s coming over the bay.”

Said Peter to Paul,

“Give her powder and ball,

    And the captain is sailing away.”

Said Paul unto Peter,

“We’ll roast her and eat her,

    The boat’s coming over the bay.”

Said Peter to Paul,

“We will gobble them all,

    And the captain is sailing away!”

“Now, ’fore we fairly get into the Gulf,”

Said Saltonstall, “and fall into its tide,

Which swallows up so many like a wolf,

I’ll sing a song about a place outside,

Where a thing once took place which was a wonder—

I mean the story of ‘Old Stand from Under.’ ”

  It was down near Havanna town, ho!

  It was down near Havanna town, low,

        That I saw a mortal fight,

        At the coming on of night,

  By the starlight a long time ago.

  Two Spaniards were a-fighting for their lives,

    The blades flashed like lightning up and down;

  To the click and the clock of the knives,

    And there stood a lady looking on.

  I asked her the cause of the fray,

    And she answered in Spanish: “Oh see!

  They are villains who carried me away,

    And now they are fighting for me.”

  And I said as I looked at her face

    That I hardly could blame such a theft,

  “But I’ll wait until one gets his grace,

    Then I’ll tackle with the other who is left.”

  But just as I spoke, with a start,

    The two leapt and fell on the sand,

  For both had been stabbed to the heart

    And each had his death out of hand.

  So I and the donna were friends,

    And that of the kindest and best;

  Now here this true history ends,

    And you must imagine the rest.

  And ’twas all near Havanna town, ho!

  It was down by Havanna town, low,

        That I saw this mortal fight,

        At the coming on of night,

  By the starlight a long time ago.

There sat a stranger there whom no one knew,

Who did not seem a follower of the sea,

And yet no stranger surely to the Blue,

Who now politely spoke the company,

Saying unto them: “Mates, ’tween you and me,

I put it as a question—don’t you think

That it is pretty near time to take a drink?

And if you do belong to Gideon’s Band,

Then here’s my purse to pay—and here’s my hand”—

There was a roar of laughter loud and long,

And then the stranger burst into a song;

But for a minute were they all so gay,

For with the words their laughter died away.

    I’ll go in yon boat, my mother,

    Oh yes! in yon boat I’ll go;

    I’ll go with the mariner, mother,

    And I’ll be a mariner too.

      Ay, ay, ay, verdadero,

      Ay, ay, con el marinero!

    And I’ll be a mariner too!

    Mother, there’s no refusing,

    What true love demands I must do;

    In love there’s no picking and choosing,

    So I’ll be a mariner too.

      Ay, ay, verdadero,

      Ay, ay, con el marinero,

    And I’ll be a mariner too!

“I like those Spanish songs,” the stranger said:

“Many I’ve heard and many I have read,

And if you like I’ll give you one in rhyme,

By Gil Vincente of the oldest time,

Which holds its own, and bravely, one may say,

For Spanish sailors sing it to this day.”

          If you’re sleeping, my dear,

          Wake and open to me!

          For the hour is at hand

          When afar we must flee.

          If your white feet are bare

          Still no longer delay;

          For deep are the waters

          Which roll in our way.

          The waters so deep

          Of the Guadalquivír;

          The hour is at hand,

          We must wander, my dear.^[7]

’Tis strange, he added, how our land, in truth,

As it goes Southward seems to turn to youth,

And with a softer sun all words are sung—

As things are warmed—into the Spanish tongue:

I’ve given you a song, let’s have another;

“Well, I know one,” I said, “which seems its brother,

Although, compared to yours, it’s nearer zero,

In Spanish, Digas tu el marinero!”

Now tell me this, my sailor boy,

  As sure as you love your wine,

Oh did you ever see a ship

  As trim as that girl of mine?

And you who’ve been in many a gale,

  And stood on many a deck;

Oh did you ever see a sail

  As white as my true love’s neck?

And you who have been where the red rose blows

  In many a Southern place,

Oh did you ever see a rose

  Like those in my sweetheart’s face?

Here’s a cheer for the women with jet black curls,

  Of Spain or of Portugal!

And seven for the Yankee and English girls,

  The prettiest of them all!

“Wall now,” cried Jones, “I railly must admit,

Them Spanish songs of yourn hev taste and wit;

But as I’m gettin’ hungry, what is upper

In me just now is that I want my supper;

And while it’s cookin’, till they bring the tub,

I’ll sing you how a sailor lost his grub.”

      Oh I once was in love like a sinner,

      And the girl she was hahn’some and tall,

      She said she would cook me a dinner

      Of corn and potatoes and all.

      In a pot she put ham and potatoes,

      One chicken, and that not too small;

      With gumbos and good red tomatoes,

      And beans and some oysters and all.

      On a rock by the river she cooked it,

      When there came up a devil of a squall;

      And into the water it hooked it,

      With the corn and potatoes and all.

      The ham and the beans and potatoes

      All went in that devil of a squall,

      With the chicken and big red tomatoes,

      And carrots and oysters and all.

      Then hurrah, boys! Hurrah for the Union!

      And the banner which waves from the wall;

      Likewise for the parsnip and onion,

      Green corn and potatoes and all!

      The gumbos, the greens, and the carrots—

      Likewise for the monkeys and parrots,

      And corn and potatoes and all!

Here John of Baltimore spoke out: said he—

“Mates, you must know I’m goin’ to leave the sea;

I’ve had a fortune left me, as I learn,

So now I guess I give the land a turn.

I am not one who a sea-life belittles,

But do confess I cannot stand the vittles:

You may correct me if you think I’m wrong;

But first I’ll give my sentiments in song:”

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      For I am going home,

      To keep me warm and dry,

      No more on the seas to roam.

      Roast beef and turkey free,

      And likewise chicken-pie,

      Salt junk—farewell to thee!

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      I’m going to the land

      Where ham and eggs they fry;

      Veal cutlets are on hand;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      Roast duck doth there abound,

      And mince and apple-pie

      In stacks is lyin’ round;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      I smell the rich roast goose,

      A second slice I’ll try;

      A third I shan’t refuse;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      Planked shad is very fine;

      I’m in for living high,

      On terrapins with wine;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      I seek my native soil,

      For soft-shell crabs I sigh,

      And oysters on the broil;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      Unto the canvas-back

      Myself I will apply,

      And hickory nuts I’ll crack;

      Of chinquapins no lack;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      The buckwheat-cake shall boom,

      The Jersey sausage fry;

      Amid green corn I’ll bloom,

      And hominy consume;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      I see the cranberry sauce,

      All with my mental eye;

      Plum-pudding I will boss;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      Venison on chafing-dish,

      With jelly, by the bye,

      Coffee and fresh cat-fish;

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      I’ll soon be on the strand

      Where luscious reed birds fly;

      My own—my Maryland—

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

      Old Ocean with thy foam,

      For thee no more I sigh;

      For I am going home!

      Hard tack and cheese, good-bye!

“That bill o’ fare,” cried Abner Chapin, loud,

“Is pitched too high for this here Northern crowd:

New England rum, I spose, seems rather meek

’Longside peach-brandy down in Chesapeake.

I don’t de-cry your vittles, by no means,

But I prefer a pot of pork and beans

To all the canvas-backs that ever flew,

With soft-shell crabs and reed birds thereunto.

And all burnt offerins of fries of lambs

Ain’t worth a dish of good Rhode Island clams;

And all your Spanish mackerel, my man,

Worth one good mackerel caught off Cape Ann!”

“Talkin’ of mackerel”—Here Peter Young

Broke off this sermon with the “Mackerel Song.”

Mackerel clouds and mares’ tails

  A-sailing, a-trailing,

Make lofty ships carry low sails

  A-sailing, a-trailing away.

When the mack’rel are in the sky,

  A-sailing, a-trailing;

Soon the wind will be blowing high:

  A-sailing and trailing away.

When the mack’rel shine in the moon,

  A-sailing, a-trailing;

Then the wind will begin to tune:

  A-sailing, a-trailing away.

Of all the wind upon the seas,

  A-sailing, a-trailing;

The best is an evening mackerel breeze:

  A-sailing and trailing away.

“A mackerel is a sailor-dish,”

Said Jones, “for ’tis a sailor fish,

All drest, like us, in white and blue,

Which I do call the prettiest hue

Which the great heaven has to show

Of all the colours in the bow:

So, if you please, I’ll sing to you

A little song about the Blue!”

    Blue is the sea we sail on,

    And blue is the sky above,

        And blue are the eyes

        As sea or skies

    Of the maiden whom I love:

    And blue is the flag we’re under,

    And blue is the coat I wear;

        But brighter the blue,

        And deeper the hue

    In the eyes which I hold so dear!

    Bluer and brighter and sweeter,

    Fonder and fair and as true;

    Oh it’s blue love and true love for ever!

    And God bless the beautiful blue!

Now supper being over, every man

Lighted his pipe or called for a cigar,

Lolled in his chair—and all again began

To order “something lively” from the bar.

Jack Saltonstall, intent on keeping peace,

Waved a great South Sea club, and said, “I’m sent

By Providence to act as your police;”

And at the table sat as President.

He was a man of pleasing dignity,

And all allowed he would a captain be,

Calming all quarrels with a word and wink;

He had hot rum and lemon for his drink.

And as he sat in state, with the club of peace

Which he had taken from the chimney-piece,

He said to us: “What tales this bat could tell

Of many a battle—many a busted shell,

And murdered victims by the surfy shore,

And cani-bally feasts when all was o’er!”

Quoth Sam of Jersey, “I hev seen such things

Among them natives, ordered by their kings,

As well might make a common pirate weep,

And the old devil feel uncommon cheap:

Such derned, infernal deeds, and parst all showin’,

Pirates and slavers ain’t the worst folk goin’.

There’s things to which the worst they do is slow;

I’ve lived among ’em an I ort to know.

And yet among those natives there are some

As mild as lambs, and good and humoursome;

Who never fight no more than an old hen,

Such difference there is in mortal men.

I’ll tell you now a tale, to make you sport,

Of one who chanced among this gentle sort.”

              We’ve a dandy ship

              And a dandy crew;

              A dandy mate

              And a captain too;

              A dandy doctor

              Who’s a dand’ old sinner,

              And a dandy darkey

              To cook the dinner.

Chorus. It’s dance, sailors, dance!

       It’s dance, the sailors, dance!

       We’ll dance all night till the broad daylight,

       And then go to sea in the mornin’!

              We’ve a dandy lot

              Of passengers,

              Who live on chicken

              And sassengers;

              A dandy steward

              To steer their mess;

              Likewise a dandy—

              Stew—ard—ess!

Chorus. It’s dance, the sailors, dance!

       It’s dance, the sailors, dance!

       We’ll dance all night till the broad daylight,

       And then go to sea in the mornin’!

“Shiftin’ and changin’ it is understood,”

Said Abner Chapin, “never come to good.”

“Yes,” quoth the Stranger, “that is very true,

Who goes for many gets but very few;

Who travels zigzag makes full many a cross,

And rolling stones ne’er gather any moss;

The explanation of which word is funny:

In common Yiddish Hebrew, moss means money,

And stones are men—take Peter for a sample—

Excuse me, friends, I know of an example

Of a loose fish who changed about so long

He first became a byword, then a song,

Which I will sing you though it is distressin’,

Not that you need it—as a moral lesson.”

  In all trades I’ve been a meddler,

Chorus. Foolin’ my life away:

  I started life as a Yankee peddler,

    Fiddlin’ and foolin’ away.

  Didn’t find the trade encouragin’

  So I turned a Dey Street New York surgeon.

  Next I’d a shopman for employer,

  And then a Philadelphia lawyer.

  After that I was a smuggler,

  Then I travelled as a juggler.

  Next I was a collector’s dunner,

  And after that an emigrant runner.

  Then I laboured with some bakers,

  Next, for a year, I joined the Shakers;

  But they found me too defective,

  So for a while I turned detective.

  Then I tried my hand as teacher,

  And next became a Blue Light preacher.

  Then I was one of the ——’s editors,

  But had to cut to dodge my creditors.

  Faking oranges I tried next on,

  Then for a while I dug as a sexton.

  For seven trips I was a slaver,

  Then, as a barber, I turned shaver.

  After that I worked as pirate,

  For all the naval sharps to fire at.

  Then nigger minstrel, then a sorter,

  Off an’ on, shorthand reporter.

  Then I took to readin’ lectures,

  And after that to paintin’ pictures.

  Next as drummer I did chaffer,

  And then I worked as photográpher.

  Then for a while I run a dairy,

  And next I turned apothecäry.

  Then stuck pla-cards as a billist,

  And so became a patent pill-ist.

  Finding all other trades deceiving,

  For a time I took to thieving.

  Now I’m a Pacific purser,

  And don’t think I can do any worser,

  Foolin’ my life away.

“Yes, that’s the way,” said Jones, “that some go squandrin’,

Which minds me that we too must now be wand’rin’:”

“And I,” quoth Brown, “must be aboard and early;

But first of all I’m going to see my girley;

She’d blow a storm if I should fail to meet her:

She is, I vum, an awful breezy creeter,

A gale in petticoats, and one that’s stinging;

I’ll sing a song on that—to end our singing.

You’ve known the girl-wind, boys—I never doubt it;

And here’s a ballad which is all about it:”

A hurly-burly, hurl-wind

Is hurrying o’er the waves;

Before it runs the Girl-wind

Fresh up from the Ocean caves.

She’s the little puff who goes before

To tell of the blow that’s coming,

She sounds like a hive when winters o’er

And you hear the bees a-humming.

It’s all very well when a young girl can

Come tripping along with laughter;

But not so nice when you see the old man

With a big stick coming after.

It’s just the same with Everything

When pleasure runs before us,

You drink your wine and think it’s fine:—

Then comes the tavern scoreus!

So we went forth upon our different ways—

And these were wide—to many a distant shore:

I to my home to put in form these lays,

And think upon this strange wild sailor-lore,

In which, to him who reads with generous heart,

As in a museum we seem to see

The strangest relics gathered far apart—

Rude, coarse, and rough, yet touched with poetry;

Like shells and gems and coins of olden time,

And worthless stones, all hardened in a mass,

Such as I’ve seen, fished from the ocean’s slime,

Such are these men and melodies—alas!

They all are of an age half past away.

Where is the boatswain now?—who hears his call?

And where these sailing packets once so gay?

I to myself do seem traditional

And all my youth a legend—so to say—

Yet well or ill I’ve done the best I could

To make in truthful song a little show

Of quaint old tales, now little understood,

Of the North End of Boston—long ago.

LAYS OF THE LAND

Before the telegraphic wires

  Had ever run from pole to pole,

Or telegirls sent telegrams

  To cheer the weary waiting soul;

When all things went about as slow

  As terrapins could run on clogs,

      Was played a game

      By one whose name

  Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

A Philadelphia newspaper

  Was printed then on Chestnut Street,

While ’crost the way, just opposite,

  There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet,

Whose editors could get no news,

  Which made ’em cross as starvin’ hogs;

      The first, I guess,

      Had an express

  Which kind o’ b’longed to Mister Boggs.

But in those days the only news

  Which reëly opened readers’ eyes,

Was of the New York lottery,

  And who by luck had got a prize.

All other news, for all they cared,

  Might travel to the orful dogs;

      And this they got

      All piping hot—

  Though surreptitiously—from Boggs.

For of the crew no party knew

  That Boggs did any horses own.

All sportin’ amputations he

  Did most concussively disown;

For he had serious subtle aims,

  His wheels were full of secret cogs,—

      Well oiled and slow,

      Yet sure to go,

  Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

One mornin’ he, mysteriously,

  An’ smilin’ quite ironical,

Spoke to the other editor,

  The man who run the Chronicle:

“The Ledger has a hoss express

  By which your lottery news he flogs.”

      “Yes, that is true,

      But what’s to do?”

  Replied the man to Mister Boggs.

Then Mister Boggs let down his brows,

  And with a long deep knowing wink,

Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast,

  But ther air faster things, I think;

An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know,

  Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs:

        Them air the bugs

        To fly like slugs!”

  Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“And in my glorious natyve land,

  Which lies acrost the Delaware,

I hev a lot upon the spot,—

  Just twenty dollars fur a pair.

These gentle insects air the things

  To make the Ledger squeal like hogs;

        That is the game

        To hit ’em lame!”

  Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

The editor looked back again,

  And saw him better on his wink.

“It is the crisis of our fate—

  Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink?

Step to the bar of Congress Hall;—

  We’ll try your poultry on, by Gogs!

        An’ let ’em fly

        Tarnation high!”

  “Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.

The pidgins came, the pidgins flew,

  They lit upon the lofty wall;

They made their five an’ ninety miles

  In just about no time at all.

Compared to them, the Ledger team

  Went just as slow as haulin’ logs.

        But all was mum,

        Shut close an’ dum,

  By the request of Mister Boggs.

Then on the follerin’ Monday he,

  Lookin’ profounder as he prowled,

This son of sin an’ mystery,

  Into the Ledger orfice owled.

“An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned,

  “That earth should bear setch skalliwogs!

        Setch all-fired snakes,

        And no mistakes!”

  Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain;

  “It seems you’ve had some awful shoves.”

“The Chronicle,” his agent cried,

  “Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves!

Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats,

  Hev smashed us up like polywogs.

        They’ve knocked, I guess,

        Our hoss express

  Higher than any kite,” said Boggs.

“Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain,

  “To keep the fellows off our walks?”

“I hev,” said Boggs, as grim as death;

  “What do you think of pidging-horks?

For in my glorious natyve land,

  Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs,

        I hev a lot

        All sharply sot

  To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.

“They are the chosen birds of wrath,

  They fly like arrers through the air,

Or angels sent by orful Death—

  Jist fifty dollars fur a pair;

An’ cheap to keep, because, you see,

  Upon the enemy they progs.”

        “Well, try it on,

        And now begone!”

  Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.

The autumn morn was bright and fair,

  Fresh as a rose with recent rain.

The pidgins tortled through the air,

  But nary one came home again.

Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street,

  Some bills and claws among the logs:

        Wipin’ a tear,

        “I greatly fear

  That all’s not right,” said Mr. Boggs.

Into the Chronicle he went,

  Twice as mysterious as before,

“And hev you heard the orful news?”

  He whispered as he shet the door.

“Oh, I hev come to tell a tale

  Of crime, which all creation flogs,

        Of wretchery

        And treachery

  That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs.

“Them Ledger fellers with their tricks,

  Hev slopped clean over crime’s dark cup.

They’ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks,

  And they hev et our pidgings up.

Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur

  When editors behave like hogs?

        An’ ragin’ crime

        Makes double time;

  Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.

“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou

  In deep revenge may dry your tears;

I hev a plan, which, you’ll allow,

  Beats all-git-out when it eppears.

The ragin’ eagle of the North,

  The bird which all creation flogs,

        Will cause them horks

        To walk ther chalks,

  An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs.

“Them glorious birds of liberty,

  Them symbols of our country’s fame,

Wild, sarsy, furious, and free,

  Indeliably rowdy game;

They shall revenge them gentile doves,

  Our harmless messengers, by Gogs!

        In which the horks

        Hev stuck ther forks,”

  Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“For in my glorious natyve land

  Acrost the river, down below,

I hev a farm, and in the barn

  Six captyve eagles in a row:

One hundred dollars fur a pair;

  Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs

        An’ up on high

        I’ll make ’em fly,”

  Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

But this same editor had heard

  Some hint or rumour, faint or dim,

How Mister Boggs, it was averred,

  Was coming Paddy over him.

An earlier tale of soapy deeds

  Then gave his memory startling jogs,

        And full of wrath

        Right in his path

  He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”—

  That was enough to raise his Dutch:

He saw it all—and also saw

  The eagle—“Just one bird too much.”

Too mad to mind his shootin’-iron,

  And throw good powder to the dogs,

        He grabbed his chair,

        And then and there

  Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs.

After long years had rolled away,

  And Morse’s telegraph came in,

Still on the facing rival roofs

  Two grey old cages could be seen,

And young reporters o’er their drinks

  Would tell each other—jolly dogs—

        Of ancient time

        What in this rhyme

  I’ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs.

The night-mist dim and darkling,

  As o’er the roads we pass,

Lies in the morning sparkling

  As dewdrops on the grass.

E’en so the deeds of darkness,

  Which come like midnight dews,

Appear as sparkling items

  Next morning in the news.

Away in Carson City,

  Far in the Silver Land,

There lives one Justice Carey,

  A man of head and hand;

And as upon his table

  The Judge a-smoking sat

There rowdied in a rougher

  Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice,

  But Justice did not budge

Until the younger warbled,

  “Say—don’t you know me, Judge?”

“I think,” said Carey meekly,

  “Your face full well I know,—

I sent you up for stealing

  A horse a year ago.”

“Ay, that is just the hair-pin

  I am, and that’s my line;

And here is twenty dollars

  I’ve brought to pay the fine.”

“You owe no fine,” said Carey,

  “Your punishment is o’er.”

“Not yet,” replied the rover;

  “I’ve come to have some more.

“Fust-rate assault and batt’ry

  I’m goin’ to commit,

And you’re the mournful victim

  That I intend to hit,

And give you such a scrampin’

  As never was, nohow;

And so, to save the lawin’,

  I guess I’ll settle now.”

Up rose the Court in splendour;

  “Young man, your start is fair,

Sail in, my son, sail over,

  And we will call it square!

Go in upon your chances,—

  Perhaps you may not miss;

I like to see young heroes

  Ambitionin’ like this.”

The young one at the older

  Went in with all his heft,

And, like a flyin’ boulder,

  At once let out his left;

The Court, in haste, ducked under

  Its head uncommon spry,

Then lifted the intruder

  With a puncher in the eye,—

A regular right-hander;

  And like a cannon-ball,

The young man, when percussioned

  Went over on the wall.

In just about a second,

  The Court, with all its vim,

Like squash-vines o’er a meadow,

  Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers

  Above an Indian grave,

Or as the Mississippi

  Inunders with its wave,

And merrily slops over

  A town in happy sport,

E’en so that man was clambered

  All over by the Court.

And in about a minute

  That party was so raw,

He would have seemed a stranger

  Unto his dearest squaw;

Till he was soft and tender,

  This morsel once so tough,

And then, in sad surrender,

  He moaned aloud, “Enough!”

He rose; and Justice Carey

  Said to him ere he went,

“I do not think the fightin’

  You did was worth a cent.

I charge for time two dollars,

  As lawyers should, ’tis plain;

The balance of the twenty

  I give you back again.

“I like to be obligin’

  To folks with all my powers,

So when you next want fightin’

  Don’t come in office hours;

I only make my charges

  For what’s in legal time,—

Drop in, my son, this evenin’,

  And I’ll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon,

  As he had ta’en the scars;

Then took himself awayward

  To the ’Ginia City cars.

’Tis glorious when heroes

  Go in to right their wrongs;

But if you’re only hair-pins,

  Oh, then beware of tongs!

There was a man who spent his mortal life

A-prisoning until there came a war;

And with the war there came an enemy,

And with the enemy came dynamite,

And with the dynamite the engineers

Histed that prison-house, and with it all

That was therein. And when the man came down

And lay a-dying, round the chaplain lit,

And asked him “What of life?” and he replied,

“To me this life has been a blasted cell.”

And so he died like any other man,

And thus it is things work among mankind.

The great Josephi—the piano lord—

When in the land of California

Was duly published for Benicia,

Yet never once put in; and then arose

Dame Rumour with a hundred thousand tongues,

And people said that he had bust his wires,

And had neuralgia in his sounding-board,

And the dyspepsia in his pedal joint,

And the stricnosis in his upper keys,—

Yet all was false, and I will tell you why.

The day before he was to have gone in

Unto his glory in Benicia,

There came a visitor whose sun-grilled face

And grand prize pumpkin air had all the style

Of a Maud Muller’s father; and this man,

Being shown in, remarked, “I s’pose you air

Mister Joseephee?” To him in reply

The small piano-smasher nodded “Yes.”

And thus the agriculturist went on:—

“I’m from Beneesh, I am, and I belong

To the Town Council—that is my posish.

Down here disposin’ of my barley, and

I thort I’d call and see yer, being as

Yer comin’ down ter-morrer fur to play.”

“Ja, dot is so,” replied the music man.

“Ye see, yer comin’ to a stranger town,

And so I thort I’d let yer hev some pints

About the programme. We’re a-payin’ yer

A pot o’ money, and of course yer want

To suit the ordience.” “Vell, vot you like,”

Exclaimed the great musician. “I can blay

Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt—ja! all de crate

Gombosers, and I gifes you vot you shoose.”

“I never heerd them tunes,” replied his guest.

“Do yer know ‘Nancy Lee’?” “Not I, bei Gott!”

“Nor ‘Mary Ann’?” “Nein” (very haughtily).

“The ‘Spanish Dona’—the ‘Monastery Bells’?”

“Gott’s dammerwetter! Himmelspotzen—nein!”

“Wall, now, whar did ye learn? My darter Sue

Goes to Miss Lynch’s, and she knows ’em all,

An’ plays ’em all by heart right straight along.

I never thought her no great shakes, and yet

She’s clean ahead of you.” A gloomy pause

Ensued, and two long glares. Then he set on,

“What kind o’ dancing music are ye gwine

To fetch along? for that’s the heavy jerk.”

“Tantz musik!” Oh, the horror of the voice

Of great Josephi when he heard these words.

“Yes, certinly. Ain’t ye a-goin’ to play

Fur dancing arter supper? Wot d’ye s’pose

We’re gwine to pay yer fur?” (Here came the squall.)

“Go to der Teufel mit your tantz musik!

Dere-to your tauter also. Sapperment!

Verflucht sei deine Seele—do you dink

I coom to blay fur caddle? I ton’t go

Unto Benicia. Dell your veller-bigs

Your tauter blays in my blace—in de blace

Of Herr Josephi—do you oonderstand,

You hundert tousend plasted Schweinigel!”

And in the rustic’s face he slammed the door.

He did not play in fair Benicia,

And in that town he is not popular;

And in its leading circles seven out

Of eight regard him as a German fraud,

Who cannot even play “My Mary Ann.”

And thus it is they think he is a sell,

And thus it is things work among mankind.

Who asks an ape to throw a coco-nut

Should take it not amiss if it be thrown

On his own head, as echo answers song.

There was a man named Jesse, who was called

The greatest liar in Connecticut.

For there are giants among the Brobdingnags.

It was a burning day, and William Hoop

Sat in the shade, when Jess came riding by.

When wolves run past your door-step, let them run.

But William cried, “Stop for a moment, Jess,

And tell us a big lie.” Jesse liked it not.

Ne’er ask a hangman how to tie a noose.

But hastily and sadly he replied,

“This is no time for lying now; oh, woe!”

A wanton widow may wear darkest weeds.

“Your Uncle Sol died very suddenly

An hour ago, and you would have me lie!”

Who weaveth nets is often caught in them.

“And I am riding for the coroner,

And for a coffin. William, learn from this

Never while living ask a man to lie.”

Then William ran in and told his wife,

And he and she and all the family

Burst into tears. The thistle soon bears thorns.

And in his waggon, leaving everything,

They posted off and on, four miles away.

The eagle hastens at the eaglet’s cry.

And when arrived they found the family

In the large kitchen, but in ne’er a grief.

It pains a man at times to miss his pain.

There Uncle Sol was buried—to the eyes,

In a great water-melon, lush and red.

Life’s sweetest things are water after all:

Which rises in a mist, and comes again

As rainy tears. And William almost wept

For rage, because he had no cause to cry.

But after this he never did entreat

Another man to tell a lie to him.

Burnt child seeks not a second time the fire.

The seek-no-further face of loveliness,

The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness,

Rich as a bonanza just unbound:

Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.

She lived a year in Europe—but for aye

In all the hearts of all who met her there;

And then her pa allowed her boundless cash,

Which she laid out in glorious works of art.

Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth,

And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things

Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical;

Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.

’Tis true it was a picture of herself,

And when she ordered it she simply said,

“I know that I am very beautiful,

My mirror tells me that—distinctively;

“But I am also very clever too,

For I am of a clever family,

Papa and sisters all are awful smart;

Now you must make it somehow sparkle out

“In what you paint. And as for me I guess

I’ll show you how to fix it—wait a bit.

Ain’t there a saint they call Saint Catherine?

One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”

“Si, Illustrissima,” the artist said,

“Dere is a Santa Catarina, who

Is beautiful most of the oder sants,

Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!

“And she do always hold opon a vheel.”

“I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing,

The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint;

That’s me exactly. What a perfect fit!”

And so ’twas painted, and the painted pair,

Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across

Unto New York; and many people came

To call and worship—or to make believe.

And with the rest came Mr. Anthony,

A blooming broker, and a mighty man,

Who did not think small brewings of himself,

Albeit his studies had been very small,

And very few i’ the heap. His face and form

Were greasiness and grossness well combined,

With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes;

He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.

And much he did admire the quaint conceit

Of being taken as a holy saint,

And said, “I’d like to try that thing myself.

How could a feller fix it——Catherine?”

“Easy enough,” replied the beautiful:

“You’ve only got to send your photograph

Out to my man in Florence, and to say,

‘Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony.’

“I’ll write it for you if you have a card,

And he will fix it for you comme il faut.”

That very hour the heavy shaver wrote,

And sent the order for his portraiture.

And in due time ’twas done—and further on

’Twas in the Custom House—and thence ’twas sent

To the Spring Exhibition in New York,

There was no time to send it to “the House.”

And Anthony himself beheld it not

Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,”

And all the newspapers had served it up,

And all the world had merry made withal.

Yea, he was in it—clad in dirty rags,

A vile abomination. In his hand

A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press

Said ’twas a rope of onions, meant to feed

The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up,

So vast in its proportions that it seemed

As Anthony were waiting on the hog,

And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.

In it and in for it. Just as the Saint

Of Padua is painted, with his pig,

Only a little more so. And thus ends

The tale of the great hog and Anthony.

“Saltokoff Skupchirofsky,” said the ruler

  Of Russia to his captain of the guard,

“I will retire; the night is growing cooler

  Have all the troops been posted in the yard?”

“They have, my liege, and in the tower o’er you

  The watchman, with an opera-glass, afar

Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“What have you done with him who came this morning,

  And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?”

“He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning

  To others like him, not as yet in quod.”

“The girl who bored us for a contribution

  To send her blessed clergyman afar?”

“She’s strangled by the Seventh Resolution:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who gave us the conniptions,

  That cheeky man from the United States,

Who came unto my bedside for subscriptions

  To—what was it?—the ‘Life of Sergeant Bates’?”

“Upon a special train that man is flying

  Unto Siberia in a third-class car;

Thou badest him ‘dry up!’ and he is drying:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who bored us for insurance

  On life or fire, who down the chimney came?”

“My liege, beneath our feet in deepest durance

  He pays with penance for his little game.”

“And, after him, the pedlar who came plungin’

  Into the parlour, smoking a cigar?”

“Ask of the vipers in the palace dungeon:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And that young man who always kept a-saying,

  ‘That is the kind of hair-pin that I am’?”

“My liege, the strychnine in his vitals playing

  May tell you how I stopped that kind of flam.

“And he who at this day is still repeating,

  ‘What, never, never?’ ” “In a butt of tar

We coopered him. His heart’s no longer beating:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who on the imperial fences

  Inscribed Pop’s Bitters, and Take Fooler’s Pills?”

“My lord, his medicines were no defences,

  In Hades he atones for earthly ills.”

“And that confounded nuisance of a Scotch Guard

  Who played the bagpipes up and down the car?”

“My lord, the imperial headsman wears his watch-guard:

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“Captain, ’tis well. Now telegraph to London

  That every Nihilist has had his dose,

And that a fresh conspiracy is undone,

  And keep the gum-drop, corn-ball peddlers close

Who spread sedition in the trains to ’stress me;

  And keep the gates of anarchy ajar;

So may Saint Feoderskidobry bless thee!

  Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“Now Mr. Gallagher is satisfied.”

So says the Boston Post. The facts are these:

He is the chief of a theatric club,

And as he deems that he can melodram,

He melodrammed for it a mighty piece

Of thundering incidents and awful scenes,

Which called for just nine actors. And they all

Declared that each had got the worst and curst

Of all the parts, and that ’twas written thus

To boom the fame of selfish Gallagher;

So the first night they came upon the boards,

With hearts like hornets and with souls like snakes

And feeling like old pizen, all agog

To be revenged upon the common foe,

Who was to act the hero. Act the first:

The hero and his mother meet to part,

And on her shoulders and o’er all her bust

The parent had put pins by papersful,

Till she was like a frightful porcupine;

And when she pressed her darling to her breast,

The pins en masse entered his very soul,

And pricked his nose, and ran into his cheeks,

So that he howled; but his mamma held on,

Easing her heart with rapturous revenge

While agonizing his. In the next act

He was on shipboard, and ’twas in the plot

That he should be knocked down and cuffed about

By a most cruel captain; and, God knows,

The captain played that part most perfectly,

Since in the start he went for Gallagher

With a belaying-pin, and laid him out

Secundum artem, and then let him up,

Only to let into him twice as hot,

’Mid rapturous hurrahs. In the next act

The hero led the crew to mutiny,

And Gallagher was glorious; but just then

Some one let down the trap on which he stood,

And there he was, up to his waist in stage,

Unable to get up or to go down,

And thus they kept him in captivity

While all the audience guyed him. When he strove

To climb they lowered him, and when he sought

To dodge beneath they highered him again;

So he went up and down like Erie stock

Until the scene was shifted. In the next

He fought the villain of the play, and this

Was Mr. Hencoop Smith, a stalwart rogue,

Extremely high on muscle, and the way

He lathered Gallagher about the stage

Was Awful Gardener. And when Smith should cry,

“Forgive me—I am crushed!” and Gallagher

Replied, “I’ll have your life!” the hero lay

Under the table, while his adversary

Bemauled him with a chair-leg. It was o’er,

And Gallagher, all black and blue, went home

To plotter out revenge. On the next night

The piece was adverred to be played again,

And Gallagher sent round a messenger,

Who said he was too ill to play his part,

But he would send a substitute. He did—

A giant-like ferocious prize-fighter,

Under another name. And how he played!

He squeezed the mother into raving fits,

And jerked her wig away by accident,

And threw the cruel captain down the trap,

And larruped all the actors; and when Smith

Came on to fight, he took him by the heels

And mopped the stage with him until ’twas clean,

Then hurled him through the flat. All was a wreck:

And in the front seat sat the Gallagher

And laughed until he cried. Revenge is sweet!

Since Soul first basked in Passion’s sun,

  I always ran to seed

In seeking One who’d gone and done

  Some great heroic deed;

And deemed I’d find Life’s Earnest Truth

  In Gloriana Clarke,

Whose eyes were like two carriage lamps

  Advancing through the dark.

But as the rose of morning fades

  Before the fire of noon,

Or sparrows yield in sylvan glades

  To mocking-birds in June,

My Gloriana’s stock went down—

  Its wheat all turned to chaff—

When I got in with Mary Miles,

  Who ran the telegraph.

Her brow betokened serious life;

  I knew my final queen;

A soul divine in gaiter-boots,

  A Dream in crinoline.

Her parasol a glory seemed

  Around a vivid saint,

The whole one spirit-photograph

  Illumed with heavenly paint.

And thus she lifted up her voice,

  That mission-mantled maid;

And thus she spoke with golden grace,

  And sacredly she said—

A-pointing at me all the time

  With that same parasol,

The light which gleams from silent lands

  Around her seemed to fall—

“You’ve told of great and holy deeds—

  I s’pose they all are true—

But in our telegraphic line

  We’ve some adventures, too;

And though I do not like to boast

  Of what I ever done,

One thing my Moral Consciousness

  Declares was Number One.

“Last Fall I was in Tennessee

  A-travelling might and main,

When all at once the engine broke—

  They couldn’t run the train;

And if another train should come

  ’Twould rather make us scream.”

List to the glorious deed she did,

  This angel of my dream.

“I saw a telegraphic line

  Was running by our rout,

Though not a house or a machine

  Was anywhere about.

And the conductor said, said he,

  With his wild eyes of light:

‘Miss Miles, if we’d a battery,

  I’d fix this scrape all right.

“ ‘I’d send ’em down a telegram

  Some twenty miles below,

And ask for help.’ I looked at him—

  ‘I’ll fix the business, Joe.

Is there a pair of nippers here?

  If so, those nippers bring;

And if you can’t, a sharp-edged file

  Would be a heaven-sent thing.’ ”

“Unshadowed girl! I see the dodge,”

  I cried in rapturous joy;

“And didst thou climb the post thyself?”

  Said she, “I did, my boy.

A higher law of moral truth

  Gave courage to my soul;

I did not show my garters once

  In going up the pole.

“No poet ever felt such thrills

  In touching of his lyre

As I did when I found there came

  A message through the wire.

That wire I cut, and ’tween my teeth

  I held it—ay, with pride—

And with my tongue the current clicked

  To the wire on t’other side.

“On one side came the message in

  From some man in New York:

‘Buy if you can, at ninety-five,

  Five thousand sides of pork.’

And this same electricity

  I changed as in a flash:

‘Send down an engine right away,

  Or we shall go to smash.’

“The engine came, and all were saved—

  Yet life is but a Dream.

I live—thou livest in a cloud:

  We are not what we seem.

Still craving for the Infinite

  In Time’s ideal lodge,

I grasped a truth—yet after all

  ’Twas but an earthly dodge.”

I gazed upon that spirit grand,

  Upon my knees I sank,

And from mine eyes the burning sand

  The scalding tear-drops drank.

Then soft she smiled: “If deeds like this

  Can yield such victory,

And I am in your line, my love,

  Then, love, I yield to thee.”

Ho, maidens of Vienna’s show!

  Ho, matrons of Lucerne!

Look out for us next summer, when

  We give your shop a turn.

I have won my soul’s ideal,

  I have booked her for a wife;

And the Fancy and the Real

  Are united in my life.

Like an awful alligator

Breathing fire and screeching hell-some,

With a pack of hounds behind him,

As if hunted by the devil,

Came the smoking locomotive,

Followed by the cars and tender,

Down among the mountain gorges,

Till it stopped before a village

As the starry night came on.

Just before a mountain village,

Where there was a howling shindy

Just around a bran-new gallows,

With a roaring blazing bonfire

Casting a red light upon it,

While a crowd of roughest rowdies

Shouted, “Cuss him! darn his vitals!

Bust him! sink him! burn him! skin him!”

Evidently much excited

As the starry night came on.

On the gallows stood a culprit

Shrieking painfully for mercy.

As the train and engine halted,

Louder yelled the gasping victim.

Then out cried the grim conductor,

“What in thunder is the matter?

What’s ye doin’ with that feller?

Why’ve ye got both fire and gallows?”

And unto him some one answered,

As the starry night came on:—

“This all-fired, skunk-eyed villain,

Whom you see upon the gallows,

Lately stole the loveliest mewel^[11]

That you ever sot your peeps on,

For a hundred shiny dollars,

Went and sold it to the Greasers;

But, as you perceive, we’ve nailed him,

And at present we’re debatin’

Whether we had better hang him,

Or else roast him like an Injun,

Ere the starry night comes on.

“And I think ez ther ar’ ladies

Here to grace this gay occasion,

In the train, and quite convenient,

We had better take and burn him.

’Twould be kinder interestin’,

Or, as folks might say, romantic,

To behold an execution,

As we do ’em here in Hell Town,

In the real frontier fashion,

Ere the starry night comes on.”

Up from all the assembled ladies,

And from all the passageros,

Went a scream of protestation,—

“What! for nothing but a mewel!

Only for a hundred dollars

Roast alive a fine young fellow!

Never, never, never, ne—ver!”

Falling on her knees, a damsel

Begged the maddened crowd to spare him,

And to her replied the spokesman,

As the starry night came on:—

“Since the lady begs it of us,

And as we ar’ galiant fellers,

We will smash the tail of Jestis,

And will spare this orful miscrint,

Ef you’ll raise a hundred dollars

To replace the vanished mewel.

Then this fiend, unwhipped, undamaged,

May go wanderin’ to thunder,

Soon as he darnation pleases,

Ere the starry night comes on.”

Straight among the pitying ladies,

And the other passageros,

Went the hat around in circle.

Dollars, quarters, halves, and greenbacks

Rained into it till the hundred

Was accomplished, and the ransom

Paid unto Judge Lynch in person,

Who received it very gracious,

And at once released the prisoner,

Sternly bidding him to squaddle,

Just as fast as he could make it,

Ere the starry night came on.

And the lady who by kneeling

Had destroyed the path of justice,

Seized upon the fine young fellow,

He who had the mulomania,

Or who was a kleptomuliac;

And she led him by the halter,

While the reckless population

Made atrocious puns upon it;

And she stowed him in the Pullman

As the safest sanctuary,

As the starry night came on.

It was over. Loud the whistle

Blew a signal of departure;

Still the dying bonfire flickering

Showed on high the ghastly gallows,

Seeming like some hungry monster

Disappointed of a victim,

Gasping as in fitful anger,

Pouring out unto the gallows

Or the sympathetic scaffold

All the story of its sorrow,

As the clouds passed o’er the moon-face,

And the starry night came on.

Soon the train and those within it

Reached and passed a second station,

And was speeding ever onward,

When at once a shriek came ringing—

’Twas an utterance from the lady

Who by tears had baffled justice;

Loud she cried, “Where is my hero?

Where, oh, where’s the handsome prisoner?”

And the affable conductor

Searched the train from clue to ear-ring,

But they could not find the captive.

He had clearly just evaded

At the station just behind them,

As the starry night came on.

Then outspoke a man unnoted

Hitherto: “I heard the fellow

Say just now to the conductor,

Ere we reached the second teapot,

That he reckoned he must hook it

This here time a little sooner,

If he hoped to get his portion

Of the hundred, since the last time

He came awful nigh to lose it;

For it might be anted off all

’Fore he got a chance to strike it,

Ere the starry night came on.”

And the Unknown thus continued:

“They hev hed that gallows standin’

All the summer, and the people

Mostly git ther livin’ from it,

For they take ther turns in bein’

Mournful victims who hev stolen

Every one a lovely mewel;

And they always every evenin’

Hev the awful death-fire kindled,

And the ghastly captive ready.

It’s the fourth time I hev seen it,

Comin’ through and never missed it;

Only for a variation

Now and then they hire a nigger

For the people from New England,

As the starry night comes on.

“And they find that fire and gallows

Just as good as a bonanza,

For they got the Legislater

Lately to incopperate it;

And I hear the stock is risin’

Up like prairie smoke in autumn.

Yes, in this world men diskiver

Cur’ous ways to make a livin’,

Ez you’ll find when you hev tried it

For a year or so about here.”

And the passengers in silence

Mused upon this new experience,

Most of all the fine young lady,

As the dragon darted onward,

And the starry night came on.

There is a golden glory in my song

As of a picture by Carpaccio,

For it is of the early morning-time

When every man believed with tender faith

That animals could talk—oh, lovely lore!

So, lady, listen as the lay runs on.

There was a goose, and she was travelling

Across the land for her dyspepsia,

And at the noontide sat to rest herself

In a small thicket, when there came along

Two starving foxes, perishing to find

Something which was not too-too-utter-ish

To serve for dinner. And as they were wild

For want of food, it was but natural

That they should likewise be confounded cross;

Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

And as they halted near the thicket, one

Of them observed, “If you were half as sharp

As books make out, you would not now, I’ll bet,

Be ravenous enough to gnaw the grass.”

“And if you were as big, or half as big,

As you believe you are,” snarled Number Two,

“You’d be a lion of the largest size

Minus his roar, and pluck, and dignity.”

Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

“Please to observe I want no impudence

From any fifteen-nickel quadruped

Of your peculiar shape,” snapped Number One.

“And if you give me but another note

Of your chin-music,” snarled out Number Two,

“I’ll make a wreck of you, you wretched beast,

Beyond insurance—bet your tail on that!”

Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“You are the champion snob of all the beasts!”

“And you the upper scum of all the frauds.”

“You are the weathercock of infamy.”

“And you the lightning-rod of falsehood’s spire.”

“You are a thief!” “Ditto.” “You lie.” “I ain’t.”

“Shut up, you goy!” And hearing this, the goose

Could bear no more, but walking from the bush,

Put on expression most benevolent,

And said, “Oh, gentlemen, for shame! for shame!

I’ll settle this dispute: in the first place

Let me remark, as an impartial friend——”

Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

But she did not remark, because they made

A rush at her and caught her by the throat,

And ate her up; and as they picked their teeth

With toothpicks made of her last pin-feathers,

The first observed, and that quite affably,

“Only a goose would ever make attempt

To settle a dispute when foxes fight”—

Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“And while I have a very great respect

For any peacemaker,” said Number Two,

“I would suggest that I invariably

Have found, if they be really honest folk

Who interfere with reprobates like us,

They’re always eaten up; there is, I think,

More clanship between devils any day

Than among all the angels. Interest

Binds us together, and howe’er we fight

Among ourselves to ease our bitter blood,

We do not hate each other half as much

As we do hate the good. Neighbours who fight

Can generally take most perfect care,

Not only of themselves, but of the goose

Who sticks her bill into the fuss they make.

This banquet now adjourns until it meets

Another wingéd angel of the sort

Which it has just discussed—may it be soon!”

Lady, this lyric runs no further on.

I would not say to man, “Don’t spread yourself

To win the admiration of mankind,”

Since he who never spreads can never shine,

And he who never shines is never seen,

And he who’s never seen is counted out

In the great game of life; yet what is spread

Too thin entirely, when the sun shines out

Must soon dry up and be a fly-away.

There was a man who took his daily dine

At a delightful table d’hôte, where he

Was waited on by an obedient youth,

Who, as a waiter, was a paragon

Of quick politeness. He’d apologise

If the sun shone too much, or if it rained,

And say in simple faith that he would speak

To the proprietor and have it changed,

Then vanish like an elfin fly-away.

The vulgar boarder at this table d’hôte

Was one who greatly loved to spread himself

And play the imperial before the rest;

And finding that the waiter cushioned it,

Sat down on him severely. Every time

He spoke he called him names, and said that he

Forthwith would punish him in cruel wise

Unless he tortled faster, or unless

The steak was better cooked. And then he’d swear—

Oh, death and dandelions! how he would swear!

Till all the blood of all the boarders round

Was almost turned to cherry-water ice,

And each and all wished they could fly away.

And yet this waiter had a fund reserved

Of pretty stout pugnacity and pride,

And every time the boarder called him “fool,”

Or “low-born rooster,” he would add it up

To the preceding pile of expletives,

And think it over. He did not forget

A single word. Of all the abusatives

There was not one which proved a fly-away.

At last the crisis came, when one fine day,

For some imagined fault, the boarder said

Unto the waiter, that unless he stirred

A little quicker he would bung his eye,

And take him by the legs instanter-ly

And wipe the floor with him. But with that word

He overdrew the account. That was the fly

Which overset the camel, and the drop

Which made the pail slop over. For the youth

On that let out his Injun. All at once

He turned both red and white, as fat and lean

Are seen in a beefsteak before ’tis cooked,

And blew his soul out in a fly-away.

“You misspelled copy of a gentleman

With all the meaning lost!—if you dare call

Me names again as you have often done,

I’ll bung your pallid eyes. You’ve said too much,

So now just dwindle down. I’ve always been

Obedient and polite, and served you well,

As you were never served by any one,

And all you ever gave me was abuse,

And all because you were a vulgar fool.

Now stop your noise, or I will sling you out

Of yonder window for a fly-away!”

The boarder rose as if in roaring wrath,

The waiter jerked his linen jacket off

And fairly danced about in gypsy style,

Impatient for a fight. But then the guest

As if with self-command restrained himself,

And said to the assembled company,

“There must be lines in all society

To regulate our conduct. Lines, I say,

Which separate us from the vulgar herd,

With whom we may not fight. I draw the line

At waiters.” Here he looked about the room

To be applauded; but the only sound

Which rose was that of a tremendous slap

On his own face, and then a mighty roar

Of laughter from the happy company,

For all his valour was a fly-away.

So he sat down too terrified to speak;

And then the waiter took a dripping jug

Of ice-water and poured out every drop

Upon his head, yea, water, ice, and all;

And then that boarder burst in bitter tears,

And blubbered like a boy, while all the room

Rang with redoubled laughter. Then a guest

Proposed a vote of thanks to him who had

Put down a public nuisance, and the next

Passed round a hat and took collection up

To give the waiter as a small reward

For punishing a coward. Then he rose,

And since that hour has been a fly-away.

“Great thoughts are oft expressed in fewest words,”

And I remember how long years ago,

When a great lady in her diary

Of a short visit to the Scottish land,

Recorded of a sorrowful event,

“To-day poor little Vicky, by mischance,

Sat on a wasps’ nest.” All the newspapers

Declared it was a perfect masterpiece

Of excellent conciseness. Yet I think

It was outdone by a Red Indian—

One of the Quoddy tribe—who did the same;

Since he, like “little Vicky,” also sat

Upon a seat as hot; and when he rose,

Briefly exclaimed in his vernacular:—

“H’lam-kikqu’!” and being asked what this

Might mean, responded in the English tongue:

“Heap hell!” O reader! if the soul of wit

Be brevity, this Indian was there.

Among the merry tales of olden time

Which are still current in fair Italy

Are many told in taverns or in type

About the rude barbarians of the North

Who cross the Alps, even as they did of yore,

When they invaded fertile Lombardy,

And helped themselves to all which pleased their eyes,

And paid for it in iron and with blood:

Those times are fled, but Northmen still are here;

States fall, arts fade, but English yet abound,

And Austrian-Germans and Americans

Stalk proudly through the streets with Baedeker,

Or Murray, with the very gait and air

Of their barbarian ancestors—although

They are cleaner washed and more completely shaved—

Bet high upon the latter; for as once

They came to rob the natives of their goods,

The latter now do live by spoiling them.

And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Thus we may note that all these foreigners,

Be it the daintiest English dame alive,

Or damsel born in fair America,

Or Russians of a royal family,

Or Frenchmen of the very noblest stock,

Or Viennese as elegant and fesch^[12]

As even Viennese can be produced—

Wherein they wellnigh rival Baltimore—

Are still regarded by the Italian with

A doubtful smile, who as he smiles exclaims:

“Sono forestieri”—which indeed

Means “They are foreigners”—and yet the word

Comes from Foresto—savage—desert—wild—

And so do ancient thorns live round the rose.

And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that in the Lombard time

When Dieterich-Theodoric was king,

And from Ravenna ruled all Italy,

The court religion was the Arian,

To which men nowadays an Unit add,

Yet do not add by the process—that I see—

Aught to its value; but the odd result

Was that the Gothic warriors nothing knew

About the mystery of the Trinity,—

Nay, they were even far more ignorant

Than was the English curate, who when asked

What he did understand by the Holy Ghost,

Replied: “I am not sure, but I believe

It is a kind of pigeon.” These poor Goths

Had never learned so much as this youth knew.

And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that once a Visigoth

Stately, while all unconscious of his state,

And proud while nothing thinking of his pride,

Went stalking onwards through the streets of Rome,

Unheeding all the casual passers-by

Who turned to look at him—as a grave bull

Might walk through many sheep—or as my lord

Guy de Plantagenet just now walked by

Before my window, where I writing sit,

In Florence—true he came bien à propos.

And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Well then, this fierce barbarian from the North,

Who as I said was densely ignorant

Of Trinitarian theology,

Was not much further in the Italian tongue,

Seeing that that which he essayed to speak

Was of the pidgin kind,—oh, marvel strange!

Oh, wondrous miracle!—lo, how the Muse

Brings up that word to keep me to my tale!

Ah! what strange things do happen in this world!

Now as he strode along the Roman street,

With thoughts of dinner flitting through his soul,

Lifting his eyes he saw upon a sign

The picture of a dove with outspread wings

Above the door of a trattoria,

Which means a place where you can treat yourself

To what you want—that is, a restaurant.

And ’neath the bird he read inscribed in gold:

Spirito Santo; and he gazed at it,

And took an object-lesson, and exclaimed:

“So that is the Italian for a dove!

I must remember it.” So in he went

Repeating ever to himself the words

“Spirito Santo! Santo Spirito!”

Those who o’erheard him deemed him a devout

And fervid follower of the Trinity.

And thus strange things do happen in the world.

And having sat him down, the waiter came

And asked His Excellence what he would have;

To which his Gothic Excellence replied:

“I want a bottle of your noblest wine,

With it a soup of highest quality,

And after that a roast San’ Spirito!”

“A roasted—what? Signore,” cried the man,

As one who had not rightly understood,

While all the guests around did glare amazed.

“I said,” resumed the Northern warrior,

“A Spirito Santo, such as you have got

Upon your sign outside—a bird, you know,

That moves its wings like this”—and here he moved

His bended arms like wings, both up and down,

While with his voice he murmured Coo-oo-oo!

Or what is called in French a roucoulement,

Or girren in the German. Hearing this,

All who were present promptly understood;

And though they all were naturally polite,

And never laughed at any foreigner

Before his face, because he erred in words,

This was too—too—too much, and all burst out

In a tremendous—an Homeric roar.

They drew the line at pigeons; and the Goth

When ’twas explained laughed loudest of them all;

And thus it was he learned another word.

And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Faust means a fist—a fist can hit, I ween:

Faust made the greatest hit that e’er was seen.

I know not if ’twas Guttenberg

Or Faust who first began

To print—the honour was too great

For any single man.

Printing is called the Art of Arts,

And typos then are artists—right—

They are the nobler counterparts

Of those who work in Black and White.

ORBUS IN TACTU MAINET.—P. 2

THERE were in Philadelphia, forty years ago, two sailors’ groggeries in Water Street, both having the sign of The Boy and Barrel, derived from the infant Bacchus. One of these had for motto the words exactly as here misspelt and divided.

TIME FOR US TO GO.—P. 64

In one of his admirable papers, “At the Sign of the Ship,” published in the Cornhill Magazine, Mr. Andrew Lang, in discussing Sea Songs, wrote the following:—

“In an unpublished play by Mr. Henley and Mr. R. L. Stevenson, a play called Admiral Guinea, that veteran ruffian, Mr. Pew of Treasure Island, makes his appearance. He has been a sailor of Admiral Guinea’s in the slave trade, and he haunts the evangelical and remorseful Admiral like an evil conscience, singing snatches of the following ‘Slaver’s Song.’ Mr. Henley has kindly copied out the whole piece, which was published in Mr. Leland’s ‘Captain Jonas Fisher’ in Temple Bar about fourteen years ago. Whether the ballad is traditional and collected by Mr. Leland, or whether to himself is due the great credit of the authorship, I am not aware.”

Truly I am not the author of the song which I picked up in Philadelphia before the War, nor do I know who wrote it. I am tolerably certain, however, that I, having slightly retouched it, republished it in Temple Bar as quoted. There are, however, others besides Mr. Lang who think I wrote it, so I give it here in order to make truth known, but chiefly because it is in keeping with other specimens of sailors’ lyrical folk-lore in these pages, and will be acceptable to all who like such ballads.

SAMUEL JACKSON.—P. 99

“And of the heathen natives with their suppositious wiles.”

I once crossed the Atlantic in a sailing-vessel, sharing my state-room with a veteran sea-captain who had been for forty years in the whaling service. He had an inexhaustible stock of sea-folk-lore, which he freely imparted to me who was an eager listener, and as the voyage lasted thirty-five days I had opportunity to gather much. I am indebted to him for this amusing interchange of words. When telling me that he once went incognito to revisit his old home in Connecticut he said, “I passed under a superstitious name.”

THE END

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh

NEW NOVELS.

At all the Libraries.

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

[The end of Songs of the Sea and Lays of the Land, by Charles Godfrey Leland.]