Chapter I: SAW three sailors synging, hey howe! (2)

“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.”

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[6]

Irme quiero, madre,
En aquella galera
Con el marinero
Por ser marinera.

THE SPANISH SAILOR’S SONG

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!_”

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[7]

Si dormis, donçella,
Despertad y abrid,
Que venida es la hora,
Si quereis partir.

Si descalza estais
No querais calzar,
Que muchas las aquas
Teneis de pasar—

Las aguas tan hondas
De Guadalquivír;
Que venida es la hora
Si teneis partir.

THE LOVER TO THE SAILOR

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.”

GREEN CORN AND POTATOES

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:”

THE SAILOR’S FAREWELL

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 SIGNS

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!”

TRUE 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.”

THE STORY OF SAMUEL JACKSON

I’ll tell you of a sailor now, a tale that can’t be beat,
His name was Samuel Jackson, and his height was seven feet;
And how this man was shipwrecked in the far Pacific Isles,
And of the heathen natives with their suppositious[8] wiles.

Now when the others cut the ship, because she was a wreck,
They left this Samuel Jackson there, a-standin’ on the deck—
That is, a standin’ on the deck, while sittin’ on the boom;
They wouldn’t let him in the boat ’cos he took up too much room.

When up there came a tilted wave, and like a horse it romped,
It fell like mountains on the boat, and so the boat was swamped;
And of those selfish mariners full every one was drowned,
While Samuel, standing on the deck, beheld it safe and sound.

Now when the sea grew soft and still, and all the gale was o’er,
Sam Jackson made himself a raft, and paddled safe ashore.
For fear of fatal accidents—not knowin’ what might come,
He took a gun and matches, with a prudent cask of rum.

Now this island where he landed proved as merry as a fife,
For its indigents had ne’er beheld a white man in their life;
Such incidents as rum and guns they never yet had seen,
And likewise, in religion, they were awful jolly green.

But they had a dim tradition, from their ancestors, in course,
Which they had somehow derived from a very ancient source:
How that a god would come to them, and set the island right;
And how he should be orful tall, and likewise pearly white.

Now when they saw this Samuel approachin’ on his raft,
The news through all the island shades was quickly telegrapht,
How all their tribulations would speedily be past,
’Cos the long-expected sucker was invadin’ ’em at last.

Now when Sam Jackson stept ashore, as modest as you please,
Nine thousand bloomin’ savages received him on their knees;
He looked around in wonderment, regardin’ it as odd,
Not bein’ much accustomed to be worshipped as a god.

But he twigged the situation, and with a pleasin’ smile
Stretched out his hands, a-blessin’ all the natives of the isle;
He did it well, although his paws were bigger than a pan,
Because he was habitual a most politeful man.

So to return their manners, and nary-wise for fun,
He raised himself with dignity, and then fired off his gun:
So all allowed that he must be one of the heavenly chaps,
Since he went about with lightning and dispensed with thunderclaps.

They took him on their shoulders, and he let it go for good,
And went into their city in the which a temple stood,
And sot him on the altar, and made him their salams,
And brought him pleasant coco-nuts, with chickens, po and yams.

And from that day henceforward, in a captivating style,
He relegated, as he pleased, the natives of that isle;
And when an unbeliever rose—as now and then were some,
He cured their irreligion with a little taste of rum.

He settled all their business, and he did it very well,
So everything went booming like a blessed wedding bell;
Eleven lovely feminines attended to his wants,
And a guard of honour followed him to all his usual haunts.

Now what mortal men are made of, that they can’t put up with bliss,
I do not know, but this I know, that Sam got tired of this;
He wished that he was far away, again aboard a ship,
And all he thought of—night and day—was givin’ ’em the slip.

And so one night when all was still and every soul asleep,
He got into a good canoe and paddled o’er the deep,
But oh the row the natives made, when early in the morn
They came to worship Samuel, and found their god was gone!

Then Samuel travelled many days, but had the luck at last
To meet a brig from Boston where he shipped before the mast;
And he gave it as his sentiments, and no one thought it odd,
He was better off as sailor than when sailing as a god.

Now many years had flown away when Samuel was forgot,
There came a ship for pearl shell unto that lonely spot;
They went into the temple, and what do you suppose
They found the natives worshipping—a suit of Samuel’s clothes!

And this was the tradition of the people of the soil,
How once a great divinity had ruled upon their isle;
Four fathom tall, with eyes like fire, and such was their believin’,
One night he got upon the moon—and sailed away to Heaven!

“Wall, it’s a fact,” cried Doolittle, “I’ll swear
A rover ain’t contented anywhere;
But if he is a real sailor slip,
He’s happiest on the hull—aboard a ship—
For there at times he has his tallest fun,
Especially if ’tis a dandy one
Where all is fine—O mateys, that’s the thing!”
He raised his voice, and thus began to sing:
(While up and down he merrily did prance)
Unto the air of _Dance, the Boatman, dance!_

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[8]

_Vide_ Appendix.

THE DANDY SHIP

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.”

JACK OF ALL TRADES

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:”

THE GIRL-WIND

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.