THE MERCHANTMEN (1893) ING SOLOMON drew merchentmen, K For peacocks, apes, and ivory, With cedars out of Lebanon Which Hiram rafted down, But we be only sailormen That use in London town. Coastwise-cross-seas-round the world and back again Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suitsPlain-sail-storm-sail-lay your board and tack again And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots! We bring no store of ingots, Of spice or precious stones, THE MERCHANTMEN And some we got by purchase, At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings, And light the rolling homeward-bound By sport of bitter weather We're walty, strained, and scarred From the kentledge on the kelson To the slings upon the yard. Six oceans had their will of us To carry all away— Our galley's in the Baltic, And our boom's in Mossel Bay! We've floundered off the Texel, And dipped our gunnels under Beyond all outer charting We sailed where none have sailed, And saw the land-lights burning Our hair stood up for wonder, Strange consorts rode beside us The witch-fire climbed our channels, We've heard the Midnight Leadsman The sleet-cloud drave her hosts, When, manned by more than signed with us, We passed the Isle o' Ghosts! And north, amid the hummocks, We met the silent shallop That frighted whalers know; For, down a cruel ice-lane, That opened as he sped, We saw dead Henry Hudson Steer, North by West, his dead. THE MERCHANTMEN So dealt God's waters with us But we were heading homeward Let go, let go the anchors; Ah, fools were we and blind- Coastwise-cross-seas-round the world and back again, Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down: Plain-sail-storm-sail-lay your board and tack again— And all to bring a cargo up to London Town! M'ANDREW'S HYMN (1893) ORD, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, LORD. An', taught by time, I tak' it so-exceptin' always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. John Calvin might ha' forged the same-enorrmous, certain, slow— Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame-my 'Institutio.' I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; I'll stand the middle watch up here-alone wi' God an' these My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again. Slam-bang too much—they knock a wee-the crossheadgibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse. Fine, clear an' dark—a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night! |