II

Weare far from sight of the harbour lights,Of the sea-ports whence we came,But the old sea calls and the cold wind bites,And our hearts are turned to flame.And merry and rich is the goodly gearWe’ll win upon the tossing sea,A silken gown for my dainty dear,And a gold doubloon for me.It’s the old old road and the old old questOf the cut-throat sons of Cain,South by west and a quarter west,And hey for the Spanish Main.

Weare far from sight of the harbour lights,Of the sea-ports whence we came,But the old sea calls and the cold wind bites,And our hearts are turned to flame.

And merry and rich is the goodly gearWe’ll win upon the tossing sea,A silken gown for my dainty dear,And a gold doubloon for me.

It’s the old old road and the old old questOf the cut-throat sons of Cain,South by west and a quarter west,And hey for the Spanish Main.

There’sa sea-way somewhere where all day longIs the hushed susurrus of the sea,The mewing of the skuas, and the sailor’s song,And the wind’s cry calling me.There’s a haven somewhere where the quiet of the bayIs troubled with the shifting tide,Where the gulls are flying, crying in the bright white spray,And the tan-sailed schooners ride.

There’sa sea-way somewhere where all day longIs the hushed susurrus of the sea,The mewing of the skuas, and the sailor’s song,And the wind’s cry calling me.

There’s a haven somewhere where the quiet of the bayIs troubled with the shifting tide,Where the gulls are flying, crying in the bright white spray,And the tan-sailed schooners ride.

Thetoppling rollers at the harbour mouthAre spattering the bows with foam,And the anchor’s catted, and she’s heading for the southWith her topsails sheeted home.And a merry measure is the dance she’ll tread(To the clanking of the staysail’s hanks)When the guns are growling and the blood runs red,And the prisoners are walking of the planks.

Thetoppling rollers at the harbour mouthAre spattering the bows with foam,And the anchor’s catted, and she’s heading for the southWith her topsails sheeted home.

And a merry measure is the dance she’ll tread(To the clanking of the staysail’s hanks)When the guns are growling and the blood runs red,And the prisoners are walking of the planks.

Whenthe last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me underTo the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foamAbout the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steeringTowards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.

And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me underTo the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.

And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foamAbout the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steeringTowards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.

It’sa warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.‘Will ye not come home, brother? ye have been long away,It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the may;And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,—Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?‘The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.‘Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,’Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.It’s the white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes’ song,In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

‘Will ye not come home, brother? ye have been long away,It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the may;And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,—Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?

‘The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

‘Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,’Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.

It’s the white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes’ song,In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

Staggeringover the running combersThe long-ship heaves her dripping flanks,Singing together, the sea-roamersDrive the oars grunting in the banks.A long pull,And a long long pull to Mydath.‘Where are ye bound, ye swart sea-farers,Vexing the grey wind-angered brine,Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearersOf goat-skins filled with country wine?’‘We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing,Over the whale’s way miles and miles,Going to Vine-Land, haply goingTo the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles.‘In the wind’s teeth and the spray’s stingingWestward and outward forth we go,Knowing not whither nor why, but singingAn old old oar-song as we row.A long pull,And a long long pull to Mydath.’

Staggeringover the running combersThe long-ship heaves her dripping flanks,Singing together, the sea-roamersDrive the oars grunting in the banks.A long pull,And a long long pull to Mydath.

‘Where are ye bound, ye swart sea-farers,Vexing the grey wind-angered brine,Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearersOf goat-skins filled with country wine?’

‘We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing,Over the whale’s way miles and miles,Going to Vine-Land, haply goingTo the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles.

‘In the wind’s teeth and the spray’s stingingWestward and outward forth we go,Knowing not whither nor why, but singingAn old old oar-song as we row.A long pull,And a long long pull to Mydath.’

Wearythe cry of the wind is, weary the sea,Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me.Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could beA white gull crying along the desolate sands!Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst,Standing drenched with the spindrift, standing athirst,For the cool green waves of death to arise and burstIn a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands.Would that the waves and the long white hair of the sprayWould gather in splendid terror and blot me awayTo the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters swayGently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands!

Wearythe cry of the wind is, weary the sea,Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me.Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could beA white gull crying along the desolate sands!

Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst,Standing drenched with the spindrift, standing athirst,For the cool green waves of death to arise and burstIn a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands.

Would that the waves and the long white hair of the sprayWould gather in splendid terror and blot me awayTo the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters swayGently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands!

Dunnoa heap about the what an’ why,Can’t say’s I ever knowed.Heaven to me’s a fair blue stretch of sky,Earth’s jest a dusty road.Dunno the names o’ things, nor what they are,Can’t say’s I ever will.Dunno about God—he’s jest the noddin’ starAtop the windy hill.Dunno about Life—it’s jest a tramp aloneFrom wakin’-time to doss.Dunno about Death—it’s jest a quiet stoneAll over-grey wi’ moss.An’ why I live, an’ why the old world spins,Are things I never knowed;My mark’s the gypsy fires, the lonely inns,An’ jest the dusty road.

Dunnoa heap about the what an’ why,Can’t say’s I ever knowed.Heaven to me’s a fair blue stretch of sky,Earth’s jest a dusty road.

Dunno the names o’ things, nor what they are,Can’t say’s I ever will.Dunno about God—he’s jest the noddin’ starAtop the windy hill.

Dunno about Life—it’s jest a tramp aloneFrom wakin’-time to doss.Dunno about Death—it’s jest a quiet stoneAll over-grey wi’ moss.

An’ why I live, an’ why the old world spins,Are things I never knowed;My mark’s the gypsy fires, the lonely inns,An’ jest the dusty road.

I havedrunken the red wine and flung the dice;Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heardThe dear pale lady with the mournful eyes,And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird.With delicate white hands—white hands that I have kist(Oh frail white hands!)—she soothed my aching eyes;And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist,Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise.With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh,She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins,Then passed into the night, and I go seeking herDown the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted inns.

I havedrunken the red wine and flung the dice;Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heardThe dear pale lady with the mournful eyes,And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird.

With delicate white hands—white hands that I have kist(Oh frail white hands!)—she soothed my aching eyes;And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist,Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise.

With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh,She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins,Then passed into the night, and I go seeking herDown the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted inns.

Spunyarn, spunyarn, with one to turn the crank,And one to slather the spunyarn, and one to knot the hank;It’s an easy job for a summer watch, and a pleasant job enough,To twist the tarry lengths of yarn to shapely sailor stuff.Life is nothing but spunyarn on a winch in need of oil,Little enough is twined and spun but fever-fret and moil.I have travelled on land and sea, and all that I have foundAre these poor songs to brace the arms that help the winches round.

Life is nothing but spunyarn on a winch in need of oil,Little enough is twined and spun but fever-fret and moil.I have travelled on land and sea, and all that I have foundAre these poor songs to brace the arms that help the winches round.

Thecleanly rush of the mountain air,And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,Are the only things that wander there,The pitiful bones are laid at ease,The grass has grown in his tangled hair,And a rambling bramble binds his knees.To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,The only requiem-bells that rangWere the hare-bell and the heather-bell.Hushed he is with the holy spellIn the gentle hymn the wind sang,And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;The misty rain and the cold dewHave altered him from the kingly one(That his lady loved, and his men knew)And dwindled him to a skeleton.The vetches have twined about his bones,The straggling ivy twists and creepsIn his eye-sockets; the nettle keepsVigil about him while he sleeps.Over his body the wind moansWith a dreary tune throughout the day,In a chorus wistful, eerie, thinAs the gull’s cry—as the cry in the bay,The mournful word the seas sayWhen tides are wandering out or in.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,The only requiem-bells that rangWere the hare-bell and the heather-bell.Hushed he is with the holy spellIn the gentle hymn the wind sang,And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;The misty rain and the cold dewHave altered him from the kingly one(That his lady loved, and his men knew)And dwindled him to a skeleton.

The vetches have twined about his bones,The straggling ivy twists and creepsIn his eye-sockets; the nettle keepsVigil about him while he sleeps.Over his body the wind moansWith a dreary tune throughout the day,In a chorus wistful, eerie, thinAs the gull’s cry—as the cry in the bay,The mournful word the seas sayWhen tides are wandering out or in.

Trampingat night in the cold and wet, I passed the lighted inn,And an old tune, a sweet tune, was being played within.It was full of the laugh of the leaves and the song the wind sings;It brought the tears and the choked throat, and a catch to the heart-strings.And it brought a bitter thought of the days that now were dead to me,The merry days in the old home before I went to sea—Days that were dead to me indeed. I bowed my head to the rain,And I passed by the lighted inn to the lonely roads again.

And it brought a bitter thought of the days that now were dead to me,The merry days in the old home before I went to sea—Days that were dead to me indeed. I bowed my head to the rain,And I passed by the lighted inn to the lonely roads again.

A windis brushing down the clover,It sweeps the tossing branches bare,Blowing the poising kestrel overThe crumbling ramparts of the Caer.It whirls the scattered leaves before usAlong the dusty road to home,Once it awakened into chorusThe heart-strings in the ranks of Rome.There by the gusty coppice borderThe shrilling trumpets broke the halt,The Roman line, the Roman order,Swayed forwards to the blind assault.Spearman and charioteer and bowmanCharged and were scattered into spray,Savage and taciturn the RomanHewed upwards in the Roman way.There—in the twilight—where the cattleAre lowing home across the fields,The beaten warriors left the battleDead on the clansmen’s wicker shields.The leaves whirl in the wind’s riotBeneath the Beacon’s jutting spur,Quiet are clan and chief, and quietCenturion and signifer.

A windis brushing down the clover,It sweeps the tossing branches bare,Blowing the poising kestrel overThe crumbling ramparts of the Caer.

It whirls the scattered leaves before usAlong the dusty road to home,Once it awakened into chorusThe heart-strings in the ranks of Rome.

There by the gusty coppice borderThe shrilling trumpets broke the halt,The Roman line, the Roman order,Swayed forwards to the blind assault.

Spearman and charioteer and bowmanCharged and were scattered into spray,Savage and taciturn the RomanHewed upwards in the Roman way.

There—in the twilight—where the cattleAre lowing home across the fields,The beaten warriors left the battleDead on the clansmen’s wicker shields.

The leaves whirl in the wind’s riotBeneath the Beacon’s jutting spur,Quiet are clan and chief, and quietCenturion and signifer.

Itis good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky;And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox-gloves purple and white;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the pools to drink,When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.O! to feel the warmth of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;And the blessed green comely meadows seem all a-ripple with mirthAt the lilt of the shifting feet, and the dear wild cry of the birds.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox-gloves purple and white;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the pools to drink,When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

O! to feel the warmth of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;And the blessed green comely meadows seem all a-ripple with mirthAt the lilt of the shifting feet, and the dear wild cry of the birds.

Silentare the woods, and the dim green boughs areHushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path throughThe apple orchard, is a tired plough-boyCalling the cows home.A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, butStill the red, lurid wreckage of the sunsetSmoulders in smoky fire, and burns onThe misty hill-tops.Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burningFades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks areA silent army of phantoms throngingA land of shadows.

Silentare the woods, and the dim green boughs areHushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path throughThe apple orchard, is a tired plough-boyCalling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, butStill the red, lurid wreckage of the sunsetSmoulders in smoky fire, and burns onThe misty hill-tops.

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burningFades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks areA silent army of phantoms throngingA land of shadows.

Shehas done with the sea’s sorrow and the world’s wayAnd the wind’s grief;Strew her with laurel, cover her with bayAnd ivy-leaf.Let the slow mournful music sound before her,Strew the white flowers about the bier, and o’er herThe sleepy poppies red beyond belief.On the black velvet covering her eyesLet the dull earth be thrown;Hers is the mightier silence of the skies,And long, quiet rest alone.Over the pure, dark, wistful eyes of her,O’er all the human, all that dies of her,Gently let flowers be strown.Lay her away in quiet old peaceful earth(This blossom of ours),She has done with the world’s anger and the world’s mirth,Sunshine and rain-showers;And over the poor, sad, tired face of her,In the long grass above the place of her(The grass which hides the glory and the grace of her),May the Spring bring the flowers.

On the black velvet covering her eyesLet the dull earth be thrown;Hers is the mightier silence of the skies,And long, quiet rest alone.Over the pure, dark, wistful eyes of her,O’er all the human, all that dies of her,Gently let flowers be strown.

Lay her away in quiet old peaceful earth(This blossom of ours),She has done with the world’s anger and the world’s mirth,Sunshine and rain-showers;And over the poor, sad, tired face of her,In the long grass above the place of her(The grass which hides the glory and the grace of her),May the Spring bring the flowers.

Onthe long dusty ribbon of the long city street,The pageant of life is passing me on multitudinous feet,With a word here of the hills, and a song there of the sea,And—the great movement changes—the pageant passes me.Faces—passionate faces—of men I may not know,They haunt me, burn me to the heart, as I turn aside to go:The king’s face and the cur’s face, and the face of the stuffed swine,They are passing, they are passing, their eyes look into mine.I never can tire of the music of the noise of many feet,The thrill of the blood pulsing, the tick of the heart’s beat,Of the men many as sands, of the squadrons ranked and massedWho are passing, changing always, and never have changed or passed.

Faces—passionate faces—of men I may not know,They haunt me, burn me to the heart, as I turn aside to go:The king’s face and the cur’s face, and the face of the stuffed swine,They are passing, they are passing, their eyes look into mine.

I never can tire of the music of the noise of many feet,The thrill of the blood pulsing, the tick of the heart’s beat,Of the men many as sands, of the squadrons ranked and massedWho are passing, changing always, and never have changed or passed.

Oncein the windy wintry weather,The road dust blowing in our eyes,We starved or tramped or slept togetherBeneath the haystacks and the skies;Until the tiring tramp was over,And then the call for him was blown,He left his friend—his fellow-rover—To tramp the dusty roads alone.The winds wail and the woods are yellow,The hills are blotted in the rain,‘And would he were with me,’ sighs his fellow,‘With me upon the roads again!’

Oncein the windy wintry weather,The road dust blowing in our eyes,We starved or tramped or slept togetherBeneath the haystacks and the skies;

Until the tiring tramp was over,And then the call for him was blown,He left his friend—his fellow-rover—To tramp the dusty roads alone.

The winds wail and the woods are yellow,The hills are blotted in the rain,‘And would he were with me,’ sighs his fellow,‘With me upon the roads again!’

Ohyesterday the cutting edge drank thirstily and deep,The upland outlaws ringed us in and herded us as sheep,They drove us from the stricken field and bayed us into keep;But to-morrowBy the living God, we’ll try the game again!Oh yesterday our little troop was ridden through and through,Our swaying, tattered pennons fled, a broken, beaten few,And all a summer afternoon they hunted us and slew;But to-morrow,By the living God, we’ll try the game again!And here upon the turret-top the bale-fire glowers red,The wake-lights burn and drip about our hacked, disfigured dead,And many a broken heart is here and many a broken head;But to-morrow,By the living God, we’ll try the game again!

Oh yesterday our little troop was ridden through and through,Our swaying, tattered pennons fled, a broken, beaten few,And all a summer afternoon they hunted us and slew;But to-morrow,By the living God, we’ll try the game again!

And here upon the turret-top the bale-fire glowers red,The wake-lights burn and drip about our hacked, disfigured dead,And many a broken heart is here and many a broken head;But to-morrow,By the living God, we’ll try the game again!

Allthe merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme,Dust is swimming dizzily down the village street,The scabbards are clattering, the feathers nodding time,To a clink of many horses’ shoes, a tramp of many feet.Seven score of Cavaliers fighting for the King,Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine,Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing,Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine.Hey the merry company;—the loud fifes playing—Blue scarves and bright steel and blossom of the may,Roses in the feathered hats, the long plumes swaying,A king’s son ahead of them showing them the way.

Seven score of Cavaliers fighting for the King,Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine,Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing,Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine.

Hey the merry company;—the loud fifes playing—Blue scarves and bright steel and blossom of the may,Roses in the feathered hats, the long plumes swaying,A king’s son ahead of them showing them the way.

Thetick of the blood is settling slow, my heart will soon be still,And ripe and ready am I for rest in the grave atop the hill;So gather me up and lay me down, for ready and ripe am I,For the weary vigil with sightless eyes that may not see the sky.I have lived my life: I have spilt the wine that God the Maker gave,So carry me up the lonely hill and lay me in the grave,And cover me in with cleanly mould and old and lichened stones,In a place where ever the cry of the wind shall thrill my sleepy bones.Gather me up and lay me down with an old song and a prayer,Cover me in with wholesome earth, and weep and leave me there;And get you gone with a kindly thought and an old tune and a sigh,And leave me alone, asleep, at rest, for ready and ripe am I.

I have lived my life: I have spilt the wine that God the Maker gave,So carry me up the lonely hill and lay me in the grave,And cover me in with cleanly mould and old and lichened stones,In a place where ever the cry of the wind shall thrill my sleepy bones.

Gather me up and lay me down with an old song and a prayer,Cover me in with wholesome earth, and weep and leave me there;And get you gone with a kindly thought and an old tune and a sigh,And leave me alone, asleep, at rest, for ready and ripe am I.

Abaft the beam.—That half of a ship included between her amidship section and the taffrail. (For ‘taffrail,’seebelow.)Abel Brown.—An unquotable sea-song.Advance-note.—A note for one month’s wages issued to sailors on their signing a ship’s articles.Belaying-pins.—Bars of iron or hard wood to which running rigging may be secured orbelayed. Belaying-pins, from their handiness and peculiar club-shape, are sometimes used as bludgeons.Bloody.—An intensive derived from the substantive ‘blood,’ a name applied to the Bucks, Scowrers, and Mohocks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.Blue Peter.—A blue and white flag hoisted at the fore-trucks of ships about to sail.Bollard.—Frombōlorbole, the round trunk of a tree. A phallic or ‘sparklet’-shaped ornament of the dockside, of assistance to mariners in warping into or out of dock.Bonded Jacky.—Negro-head tobacco or sweet cake.Bull of Barney.—A beast mentioned in an unquotable sea-proverb.Bumpkin.—An iron bar (projecting out-board from the ship’s side) to which the lower and topsail brace blocks are sometimes hooked.Cape Horn fever.—The illness proper to malingerers.Catted.—Said of an anchor when weighed and secured to the ‘cat-head.’Chanty.—A song sung to lighten labour at the capstan sheets, and halliards. The soloist is known as the chanty-man, and is usually a person of some authority in the fo’c’s’le. Many chanties are of great beauty and extreme antiquity.Clipper-bow.—A bow of delicate curves and lines.Clout.—A rag or cloth. Also a blow:—‘I fetched him a clout i’ the lug.’Crimp.—A sort of scoundrelly land-shark preying upon sailors.D.B.S.—Distressed British Sailor. A term applied to those who are invalided home from foreign ports.Dungaree.—A cheap, rough thin cloth (generally blue or brown), woven, I am told, of coco-nut fibre.Forward or Forrard.—Towards the bows.Fo’c’s’le (Forecastle).—The deck-house or living-room of the crew. The word is often used to indicate the crew, or those members of it described by passengers as the ‘common sailors.’Fore-stay.—A powerful wire rope supporting the fore-mast forward.Gaskets.—Ropes or plaited lines used to secure the sails in furling.Goneys.—Albatrosses.Guffy.—A marine or jolly.Gullies.—Sea-gulls, Cape Horn pigeons, etc.Heave and pawl.—A cry of encouragement at the capstan.Hooker.—A periphrasis for ship, I suppose from a ship’s carryinghooksor anchors.Jack or Jackstay.—A slender iron rail running along the upper portions of the yards in some ships.Leeward.—Pronounced ‘looard.’ That quarter to which the wind blows.Mainsail haul.—An order in tacking ship bidding ‘swing the mainyards.’ To loot, steal, or ‘acquire.’Main-shrouds.—Ropes, usually wire, supporting lateral strains upon the mainmast.Mollies.—Molly-hawks, or Fulmar petrels. Wide-winged dusky sea-fowls, common in high latitudes, oily to taste, gluttonous. Great fishers and garbage-eaters.Port Mahon Baboon, orPort Mahon Soger.—I have been unable to discover either the origin of these insulting epithets or the reasons for the peculiar bitterness with which they sting the marine recipient. They are older than Dana (circa1840).An old merchant sailor, now dead, once told me that Port Mahon was that godless city from which the Ark set sail, in which case the name may have some traditional connection with that evil ‘Mahoun’ or ‘Mahu,’ prince of darkness, mentioned by Shakespeare and some of our older poets.The real Port Mahon, a fine harbour in Minorca,was taken by the French, from Admiral Byng, in the year 1756.I think that the phrases originated at the time of Byng’s consequent trial and execution.Purchase.—See‘Tackle.’Quidding.—Tobacco-chewing.Sails.—The sail-maker.Santa Cruz.—A brand of rum.Scantling.—Planks.Soger.—A laggard, malingerer, or hang-back. To loaf or skulk or work Tom Cox’s Traverse.Spunyarn.—A three-strand line spun out of old rope-yarns knotted together. Most sailing-ships carry a spunyarn winch, and the spinning of such yarn is a favourite occupation in fine weather.Stirrup.—A short rope supporting the foot-rope on which the sailors stand when aloft on the yards.Tack.—To stay or ’bout ship. A reach to windward. The weather lower corner of a course.Tackle.—Pronouncedtaykle. A combination of pulleys for obtaining of artificial power.Taffrail.—The rail or bulwark round the sternmost end of a ship’s poop or after-deck.Trick.—The ordinary two-hour spell at the wheel or on the look-out.WindwardorWeather.—That quarter from which the wind blows.

Abaft the beam.—That half of a ship included between her amidship section and the taffrail. (For ‘taffrail,’seebelow.)

Abel Brown.—An unquotable sea-song.

Advance-note.—A note for one month’s wages issued to sailors on their signing a ship’s articles.

Belaying-pins.—Bars of iron or hard wood to which running rigging may be secured orbelayed. Belaying-pins, from their handiness and peculiar club-shape, are sometimes used as bludgeons.

Bloody.—An intensive derived from the substantive ‘blood,’ a name applied to the Bucks, Scowrers, and Mohocks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Blue Peter.—A blue and white flag hoisted at the fore-trucks of ships about to sail.

Bollard.—Frombōlorbole, the round trunk of a tree. A phallic or ‘sparklet’-shaped ornament of the dockside, of assistance to mariners in warping into or out of dock.

Bonded Jacky.—Negro-head tobacco or sweet cake.

Bull of Barney.—A beast mentioned in an unquotable sea-proverb.

Bumpkin.—An iron bar (projecting out-board from the ship’s side) to which the lower and topsail brace blocks are sometimes hooked.

Cape Horn fever.—The illness proper to malingerers.

Catted.—Said of an anchor when weighed and secured to the ‘cat-head.’

Chanty.—A song sung to lighten labour at the capstan sheets, and halliards. The soloist is known as the chanty-man, and is usually a person of some authority in the fo’c’s’le. Many chanties are of great beauty and extreme antiquity.

Clipper-bow.—A bow of delicate curves and lines.

Clout.—A rag or cloth. Also a blow:—‘I fetched him a clout i’ the lug.’

Crimp.—A sort of scoundrelly land-shark preying upon sailors.

D.B.S.—Distressed British Sailor. A term applied to those who are invalided home from foreign ports.

Dungaree.—A cheap, rough thin cloth (generally blue or brown), woven, I am told, of coco-nut fibre.

Forward or Forrard.—Towards the bows.

Fo’c’s’le (Forecastle).—The deck-house or living-room of the crew. The word is often used to indicate the crew, or those members of it described by passengers as the ‘common sailors.’

Fore-stay.—A powerful wire rope supporting the fore-mast forward.

Gaskets.—Ropes or plaited lines used to secure the sails in furling.

Goneys.—Albatrosses.

Guffy.—A marine or jolly.

Gullies.—Sea-gulls, Cape Horn pigeons, etc.

Heave and pawl.—A cry of encouragement at the capstan.

Hooker.—A periphrasis for ship, I suppose from a ship’s carryinghooksor anchors.

Jack or Jackstay.—A slender iron rail running along the upper portions of the yards in some ships.

Leeward.—Pronounced ‘looard.’ That quarter to which the wind blows.

Mainsail haul.—An order in tacking ship bidding ‘swing the mainyards.’ To loot, steal, or ‘acquire.’

Main-shrouds.—Ropes, usually wire, supporting lateral strains upon the mainmast.

Mollies.—Molly-hawks, or Fulmar petrels. Wide-winged dusky sea-fowls, common in high latitudes, oily to taste, gluttonous. Great fishers and garbage-eaters.

Port Mahon Baboon, orPort Mahon Soger.—I have been unable to discover either the origin of these insulting epithets or the reasons for the peculiar bitterness with which they sting the marine recipient. They are older than Dana (circa1840).

An old merchant sailor, now dead, once told me that Port Mahon was that godless city from which the Ark set sail, in which case the name may have some traditional connection with that evil ‘Mahoun’ or ‘Mahu,’ prince of darkness, mentioned by Shakespeare and some of our older poets.

The real Port Mahon, a fine harbour in Minorca,was taken by the French, from Admiral Byng, in the year 1756.

I think that the phrases originated at the time of Byng’s consequent trial and execution.

Purchase.—See‘Tackle.’

Quidding.—Tobacco-chewing.

Sails.—The sail-maker.

Santa Cruz.—A brand of rum.

Scantling.—Planks.

Soger.—A laggard, malingerer, or hang-back. To loaf or skulk or work Tom Cox’s Traverse.

Spunyarn.—A three-strand line spun out of old rope-yarns knotted together. Most sailing-ships carry a spunyarn winch, and the spinning of such yarn is a favourite occupation in fine weather.

Stirrup.—A short rope supporting the foot-rope on which the sailors stand when aloft on the yards.

Tack.—To stay or ’bout ship. A reach to windward. The weather lower corner of a course.

Tackle.—Pronouncedtaykle. A combination of pulleys for obtaining of artificial power.

Taffrail.—The rail or bulwark round the sternmost end of a ship’s poop or after-deck.

Trick.—The ordinary two-hour spell at the wheel or on the look-out.

WindwardorWeather.—That quarter from which the wind blows.

THE following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author, and other poetry

NEW BOOKS BY JOHN MASEFIELD

The Daffodil Fields

Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net; postpaid, $1.36

“Neither in the design nor in the telling did or could ‘Enoch Arden’ come near the artistic truth of ‘The Daffodil Fields’.”—Sir Quiller-Couch, Cambridge University.

A Mainsail Haul

Cloth, 12mo. Preparing

As a sailor before the mast Masefield has traveled the world over. Many of the tales in this volume are his own experiences written with the same dramatic fidelity displayed in “Dauber.”

The Tragedy of Pompey

Cloth, 12mo. Preparing

A play such as only the author of “Nan” could have written. Tense in situation and impressive in its poetry it conveys Masefield’s genius in the handling of the dramatic form.

PUBLISHED BY

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

JOHN MASEFIELD’SThe Everlasting Mercy, and TheWidow in the Bye StreetCloth, $1.25 net; postpaid, $1.38NEW AND REVISED EDITION

“The Everlasting Mercy” was awarded the Edward de Polignac prize of $500 by the Royal Society of Literature for the best imaginative work of the year.”

“John Masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow too, in poetry and in the playwriting craft.”—John Galsworthy.

“—recreates a wholly new drama of existence.”—William Stanley Braithwaite,N. Y. Times.

“Mr. Masefield comes like a flash of light across contemporary English poetry, and he trails glory where his imaginations reveals the substances of life. The improbable has been accomplished by Mr. Masefield; he has made poetry out of the very material that has refused to yield it for almost a score of years. It has only yielded it with a passion of Keats, and shaped it with the imagination of Coleridge.”—Boston Evening Transcript.

“Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human heart.”—Chicago Record-Herald.

“They are truly great pieces.”—Kentucky Post.

“A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature.”—The Independent.

“If Mr. Masefield has occasionally appeared to touch a reminiscent chord with George Meredith, it is merely an example of his good taste and the sameness of big themes.”—George MiddletoninLa Follette’s Magazine.

PUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

JOHN MASEFIELD’SThe Story of a Round-Houseand other PoemsCloth, 12mo, $1.30 net; postpaid, $1.43NEW AND REVISED EDITION

“John Masefield has produced the finest literature of the year.”—J. W. Barrie.

“John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the day.”—The Continent.

“Ah! the story of that rounding the Horn! Never in prose has the sea been so tremendously described.”—Chicago Evening Post.

“Masefield’s new book attracts the widest attention from those who in any degree are interested in the quality of present-day literature.”—Boston Transcript.

“A remarkable poem of the sea.”—San Francisco Chronicle.

“Vivid and thrillingly realistic.”—Current Literature.

“A genuine sailor and a genuine poet are a rare combination; they have produced a rare poem of the sea, which has made Mr. Masefield’s position in literature secure beyond the reach of caviling.”—Everybody’s Magazine.

“Masefield has prisoned in verse the spirit of life at sea.”—N. Y. Sun.

“There is strength about everything Masefield writes that compels the feeling that he has an inward eye on which he draws to shape new films of old pictures. In these pictures is freshness combined with power, which form the keynotes of his poetry.”—N. Y. Globe.

PUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

The Poems of Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

DAILY BREAD New edition. Three volumes in one.$1.25 net

Contains “The Shirt,” a new poem of impressive poignancy and power.

“A Millet in word-painting, who writes with a terrible simplicity, is Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, born in Hexham, England, in 1878, of whom Canon Cheyne wrote: ‘A new poet of the people has risen up among us.’ The story of a soul is written as plainly in ‘Daily Bread’ as in ‘The Divine Comedy’ and in ‘Paradise Lost.’ ”—The Outlook.

FIRES$1.25 net

“In ‘Fires’ as in ‘Daily Bread,’ the fundamental note is human sympathy with the whole of life. Impressive as these dramas are, it is in their cumulative effect that they are chiefly powerful.”—Atlantic Monthly.

WOMENKIND$1.25 net

“Mr. Gibson is a genuine singer of his own day and turns into appealing harmony the world’s harshly jarring notes of poverty and pain.”—The Outlook.

PUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

Three Important New Volumes of Poetry

By JOHN HELSTON

LONICERA AND OTHER POEMSPreparing

This book introduces another poet of promise to the verse-lovers of this country. It is of interest to learn that Mr. Helston, who for several years was an operative mechanic in electrical works, has created a remarkable impression in England where much is expected of him. This volume, characterized by verse of rare beauty, presents his most representative work, ranging from the long descriptive title-poem to shorter lyrics.

By HERMANN HAGEDORN

POEMS AND BALLADSPreparing

“His is perhaps the most confident of the prophecies of our new poets for he has seen most clearly the poetry in the new life. His song is full of the spirit of youth and hope.... It is the song that the new century needs. His verse is strong and flexible and has an ease, a naturalness, a rhythm that is rare in young poets. In many of his shorter lyrics he recalls Heine.”—Boston Transcript.

By FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS

MYSELF AND I$1.00 net

“For some years the poems of Miss Davis have attracted wide attention in the best periodicals. That note of wistful mysticism which shimmers in almost every line gives her art a distinction that is bound to make its appeal. In this first book—where every verse is significant—Miss Davis has achieved very beautiful and serious poetry.”—Boston Transcript.

PUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

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