. Salt-water poems and ballads. aboard, time for us to go;The crowds at the capstan and the tunes in the shout,A long pull, a strong pull, and warp the hooker out. The bow-wash is eddying, spreading from the and loose the topsails and some one give a rouse;A salt Atlantic chanty shall be music to the dead,A long pull, a strong pull, and the yard to the masthead. Green and merry run the seas, the wind comes and strong and pleasant, and worth a mint of gold;And shes staggering, swooping, as she feels her feet,A long pull, a strong pull, and aft the main-sheet. Shrilly squeal
. Salt-water poems and ballads. aboard, time for us to go;The crowds at the capstan and the tunes in the shout,A long pull, a strong pull, and warp the hooker out. The bow-wash is eddying, spreading from the and loose the topsails and some one give a rouse;A salt Atlantic chanty shall be music to the dead,A long pull, a strong pull, and the yard to the masthead. Green and merry run the seas, the wind comes and strong and pleasant, and worth a mint of gold;And shes staggering, swooping, as she feels her feet,A long pull, a strong pull, and aft the main-sheet. Shrilly squeal the running sheaves, the weather-gear strains,Such a clatter of chain-sheets, the devils in the chains;Over us the bright stars, under us the drowned,*A long pull, a strong pull, and were outward bound. Yonder, round and ruddy, is the mellow old red-funnelled tug has gone, and now, sonny, soonWell be clear of the Channel, so watch how you steer,Ease her when she pitches, and so-long, my 49 so SALT-WATER BALLADS. The bow-wash is eddying, spreading from the bows,Aloft and loose the topsails and some one give a rouse;A salt Atlantic chanty shall be music to the dead, A long pull, a strong pull, and the yard to the masthead, A PIER-HEAD CHORUS Oh Ill be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread,And dancing with the stars to watch, upon the focsle head,Hearkening to the bow-wash and the welter of the treadOf a thousand tons of clipper running free. For the tug has got the tow-rope and will take us to the Downs,Her paddles churn the river-wrack to muddy greens and I have given river-wrack and all the filth of townsFor the rolling, combing cresters of the sea. Well sheet the mizzen-royals home and shimmer down the Bay,The sea-line blue with billows, the land-line blurred and grey;The bow-wash will be piling high and thrashing into spray,As the hookers fore-foot tramples down the swell. Shell log a giddy seventeen and rattle out the weight of all
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Keywords: ., bookauthormasefiel, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookyear1916
