Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse

To My Wife This book is affectionately dedicated
A friend has objected to the title of this book on the ground that, as many of the characters and scenes described are to be found in almost any coast village of the United States, the title might, with equal fitness, be New Jersey Ballads, or Long Island Ballads, or something similar.
The answer to this is, simply, that while School-committee Men and Village Oracles are, doubtless, pretty much alike throughout Yankeedom, the particular specimens here dealt with were individuals whom the author knew in his boyhood down on the Cape. So, Cape Cod Ballads it is.
The verses in this collection originally appeared in Harper's Weekly, The Youth's Companion, The Saturday Evening Post, Puck, Types, The League of American Wheelmen Bulletin , and the publications of the American Press Association. Thanks are due to the editors of these periodicals for their courteous permission to reprint.
J.C.L.
Where leap the long Atlantic swells In foam-streaked stretch of hill and dale, Where shrill the north-wind demon yells, And flings the spindrift down the gale; Where, beaten 'gainst the bending mast, The frozen raindrop clings and cleaves, With steadfast front for calm or blast His battered schooner rocks and heaves. To same the gain, to some the loss, To each the chance, the risk, the fight: For men must die that men may live— Lord, may we steer our course aright. . The dripping deck beneath him reels, The flooded scuppers spout the brine; He heeds them not, he only feels The tugging of a tightened line. The grim white sea-fog o'er him throws Its clammy curtain, damp and cold; He minds it not—his work he knows, 'T is but to fill an empty hold. Oft, driven through the night's blind wrack, He feels the dread berg's ghastly breath, Or hears draw nigh through walls of black A throbbing engine chanting death; But with a calm, unwrinkled brow He fronts them, grim and undismayed, For storm and ice and liner's bow— These are but chances of the trade. Yet well he knows—where'er it be, On low Cape Cod or bluff Cape Ann— With straining eyes that search the sea A watching woman waits her man: He knows it, and his love is deep, But work is work, and bread is bread, And though men drown and women weep The hungry thousands must be fed. To some the gain, to some the loss , To each his chance, the game with Fate : For men must die that men may live — Dear Lord, be kind to those who wait .