‘ARF a pint for me, old party — thank’ee, mister — ‘ere’s yer ‘ealth —
‘Opes y’ll live to be a nundred; ‘opes yer luck’ll bring y’u wealth;
Mine ain’t bin as good as might be — never knowed a syler yet,
When ‘is days o’ leave was over, as could even go a wet.
Ship’s yer ‘ouse and ‘ome an’ country; ‘tween ‘er ports ’tis graft and go;
Ain’t no chanst o’ findin’ nuggets, ain’t no chanst to save, ye know;
Come ashore red ‘ot an’ thusty,
Sick o’ sea, an salt, an’ rusty,
Cheque is bust on beer an’ wimmen — ship again, an’ cuss an’ go
Junk an’ biskit,
‘Loft an’ risk it —
Oh, it’s grand to sail the “hoshun”–
“Yah, merrily me lads, yo ho!”
‘Oly Smoke! They gives a concert in the Seamen’s ‘All, one night,
An’ I goes an’ takes a lydy — real lydy — square an’ strite!
‘Ears a joker rise a chanty ’bout the bloomin’ “Hoshun Wyve,”
‘Ears a gal a-singin’ mournful of the “Lonely Syler’s Gryve;”
Then a bloke comes up an’ tells ’em of a “Little Midshipmite,”
Which for Queen and Hingland’s ‘oner shed ‘is gore an’ won the fight.
Looks at Poll, an’ finds ‘er cryin’,
When that bloomin’ kid is dyin’,
In a sad an’ tragic manner, in “the middle watch at night” —
Drivel, drivel,
Sobs an’ snivel,
Gals with pocket-wipes a-weepin’, woman faintin’ on the right.
“Cheese it, mate!” I sez, “it’s orful,” reachin’ for me bloomin’ ‘at;
“Life upon the bloomin’ hoshun ain’t a blessed bit like that!”
“‘Ush! “sez Poll, “the folks’ll ‘ear yer,” an’ she snivels an’ she jaws
‘Coz I would n’t clap for “Anchor” or weigh in with the’r applause.
W’en I ups an’ tells that joker as ‘ad come aloft to sing
That he didn’t know ‘is business — w’y, they ‘owled like anything!
An’ me bloomin’ ‘at got busted,
An’ I left the ‘all disgusted;
Poll, she swore she would n’t ‘ave me, an’ she gev me back me ring —
Gin an’ sorrer —
Ships to-morrer,
Leaves the blarsted port a-cussin’ like “a sea-burd on the wing.”
An’ they tells me that them jokers gets as much as twenty quid
For a song like that ere ditty of the dyin’ sailor kid!
Now, I never knowed a ‘prentice as was given to expire
Like a sang-win-airy ‘ero w’en ‘is bloomin’ ship took fire;
But I’ve known ’em play the devil with the morals of a crew;
I could also tell a story of the sinful things they do —
‘Ow they chaws an’ spits terbakker,
‘Ow they does the dirty yakker;
‘Ow they washes decks o’ mornin’s on the “boosom o’ the blue;”
‘Ow they damns ‘er and they blarsts ‘er,
An’ ‘er owner an’ ‘er master,
With the wind a-makin’ music an’ the bo’s’n pipin’ through.
No, ‘e’d never been a ‘prentice, ‘ad the cove who did the song,
Or ‘e would n’t try to come it quite so (sang-win-airy) strong;
‘E ‘ad never ‘ad the pleasure of a trip from Puget Sound
With a gory lumber cargo, an’ a chanst o’ gettin’ drowned,
‘E ‘ad never sailed, I’m thinkin’ — or ‘e’d cuss that ‘e was born —
With a (sang-win-airy) Scotchman round the (sang-win-airy) Horn,
With a slop-made suit o’ close on
An’ ‘is fingers stiff and frozen,
With the ice upon the gaskets an’ her canvas ripped and torn.
If ‘e’d ‘ad to shorten sail
In a good Antarctic gale,
‘E’d a-sung another ditty of “A Syler’s Life Forlorn.”
‘E’d a-sung a diff’rent ditty if ‘e’d ‘ad to tackle junk
In the harness-tub a-churnin’ in the tropics till she stunk;
If ‘e’d ‘ad to pick the weevils from the biskit an’ be glad
That it wa’ n’t to pick the biskit from the weevils that ‘e ‘ad;
‘E’d a-told a touchin’ story of a cove as died on land
With a fig o’ black terbaccer or a whisky in ‘is ‘and.
For, concernin’ graft an’ vittles,
‘T ain’t exsactly beer and skittles
With the able-bodied joker on the “mighty hoshun grand” —
On the “deep an’ vasty hoshun,”
With its cargo of emoshun,
An’ its “martyrs” servin’ for’ard an’ its “‘eroes” in command.
‘Oly Smoke! I meets the skipper of a bloomin’ church one day,
An’ sez he, “My syler-brother, do y’ ever kneel an’ pray?
W’en the tempest’s ragin’ round y’ — “‘ere ‘e drops ‘is bloomin’ breath,
An’ ‘is voice gets deep an’ sollum — “do y’ ever think o’ death?”
“Garn!” sez I, “you ain’t bin sailin’ in a gory gale,” sez I,
“Or,” sez I, “you would n’t ast me such a foolish question: w’y,
It’s pipe ’em up like monkeys,
If the Old Man is n’t drunk, ‘e’s
On the poop a-cussin’ dreadful and a-damnin’ low an’ ‘igh;”
“Pull away, ye sons o’ thunder!” —
Divin’ in and decks ‘alf under —
“Send all ‘ands aloft an’ ease ‘er” — “Pass the order on!” . . . “Aye, aye.”
Then that parson-cove ‘e tells me ‘ow a cove as fell from grace
Would ‘ave lots o’ ‘eat an’ torment in the other (crimson) place;
‘Ow the Christyun bloke was sailin’ on the stormy sea o’ life,
An’ ‘e ought to feel right thankful for ‘is sorrers an’ ‘is strife;
‘Ow the likker was Ole Satan, an’ the t’other kinds o’ sin
Kept a feller out of ‘Eving w’en ‘e wanted to get in.
So I see ‘is good intention,
An I did n’t want to mention
That I’d like to back “Temptation” an’ the “vile a-cussed gin,”
An’ be certain sure to win it,
For a “Christyun soul” ain’t in it
With one night ashore in fifty an’ a little bit o’ tin.
‘Arf-a-pint again, an’ thankee! …’Ere’s good luck to you an’ me!
May y’u never ‘ave to yakker as a qualified A. B.
May y’u never be a syler of the mercantile marine,
Or y’u’ll always be a syler, an’ y’u’ll never ‘ave a bean.
Oh, yer Jack the king of all, sir, ‘fore yer bloomin’ stuff is spent;
Yer a drunken syler feller w’en ‘er sails is bein’ bent;
But it’s round the world a-goin,
With the ebbin’ an’ the flowin’,
An’ y’u needn’t fear the bailiff, an’ y’u need n’t pay no rent;
There’s a month or two at sea,
Then a rattlin’, roarin’ spree . . .
An’ I dunno if I left it that I’d ever be content!
(Edwin James Brady)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Sadness Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Place Poems, Kings & Queens Poems, Fire Poems, Money & Wealth Poems, Woman PoemsBased on Keywords: prentice, ero, damns, bailiff, sorrer, rattlin, a-goin, oly, ast, a-singin, joker