A devil serves our masters
And warps to their desire
The flexing of our sinews,
Our hearts’ corroding fire;
Old as the mists of morning,
New-born with every tide,
He shorter binds our fetters
Where-e’er the galleys ride.
We con and count our numbers
By tier and bank and group;
Ten toilers on the benches
To each man on the poop;
What holds us to our labor
To rime with sweat and tear
The rawhide of the sweepheads,
The orlops’ clanking gear?
Our limbs have set to rhythm
Of forward thrust and strain,
But we might natheless stretch them
To walk as men again;
Our hearts are cowed and sullen,
But, by the stars above,
Still could we quaff a flagon,
To life and strife and love!
No power might save the galley
From vengeance of the seas,
Were we to hold our labour,
Our elbows on our knees;
Our servant then the devil!
For who loves life the more;
The idler in the cabin,
The toiler at the oar?
Worn thin our ancient fetters
To break, and we were fain;
With naught but them to forfeit,
And Freedom’s isles to gain;
Yet still we flick the spindrift
Year coursing weary year,
Of storm and tide the masters,
But bondslaves unto Fear!
(Burnett A. Ward)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Fire Poems, Fear Poems, Morning Poems, Labor Poems, Devils PoemsBased on Keywords: cowed, poop, galleys, spindrift, clanking, where-e, idler, corroding, flagon, natheless, warps