THE ENGLISH SEA CAPTAIN'S SONG.

66

Now the sea-raven mute
On the water is lying;

Now the night-wind's last sob

On the billow is dying;

And the full moon is up,

Whom no dark clouds encumber,

While the numberless stars

Lie around her in slumber,

All beneath us is bright—
All above us is glowing-
And the night's in her prime,
And the tide in the flowing.
Lo! a land-breeze awakens,

And shakes mast and pennon;
Loud the mariner shouts,

With his hand on the cannon :

Up halzars! with foam,

See the ocean is hoary!"

And away shoots my ship

In her pride and her glory!

How we love the black storm!

How we tread on the billows!

How our strong timbers quake,
And our masts bend like willows!

See, the moon hides her head,

And the waves rise in mountains;

Clouds spout liquid fire,

Heaven opes all her fountains Yet our ship rides as safely

As when, in dew nourished, An oak, 'mid the forests

Of Chatworth, she flourished! See! see! how the flame-crested Billows she's cleaving !

See! see! in the race how

Old England she's leaving! She was wood when she grew In the depth of the forest: Now a sea-queen she smiles When the tempest is sorest!

:

How she smiles 'mid the tempest,

And longs for the rattle

Of

gun

and of musket

To burst into battle!

At the thrust of her pike,

At the glance of her pennon,

At a move of her helm,

At the flash of her cannon,—

The Eagle of Russia

Plies landward her pinion,

Nor dares on the ocean

To found her dominion;

The Lilies of Bourbon

Seem wither'd and dying,

Like weeds in the sun,

Where her banner is flying.
Blake, Raleigh, Monk, Nelson,
Reign kings in sea-story;
And Britain breeds none

Will diminish their glory.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THREE POOR FISHERMEN'S SONG.

WE be three poor fishermen,

Who daily toil the seas;

We spend our lives in jeopardy,

While others live at ease.

The sky looks black around, around,
The sky looks black around,
And he that would be merry, boys,
Come haul his boat a-ground.

We cast our line along the shore
In stormy wind and rain;

And every night we land our nets,

Till daylight comes again.

The sky looks black around, around,

The sky looks black around,
And he that would be merry, boys,

Come haul his boat a-ground.

MARK LONSDALE.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

On one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,—
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead !

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain :
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheeks and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him!-he sailed away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,—
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,

With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by lay by !" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim !
Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie for evermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and raining sea,—
Looked for the coming that might not be !
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !