DAVY JONES
Down in the sea among sand and stones,
There lives the old fellow called Davy Jones.
When storms come up he sighs and groans,
And that is the singing of Davy Jones.
His chest is full of dead men’s bones,
And that is the locker of Davy Jones.
Davy is Welsh you may hear by his tones,
For a regular Welsher is Davy Jones.
Whenever a fish gets drowned, he moans,
So tender-hearted is Davy Jones.
Thousands of ships the old man owns,
But none go a-sailing for Davy Jones.
“Well—since you talk o’ the bottom of the sea,”
Said Enoch Doolittle of Salem town,
“I know a yarn that beats you full and free,
Because, d’ye know, it takes you deeper down,
And if you’re taken down—of course you’re beat.”
“That’s so,” cried all, “so now your yarn repeat!”
“All right,” quoth Doolittle, “I’ll serve it hot,
Because, d’ye see, it’s called The Devil’s Pot.
But ’fore I dive into the salty brine,
Give me a gill of white New England wine!
Take one all round to benefit the pub.
Now for the bottom of the pickle tub.”
THE DEVIL’S POT[[2]]
There’s a place where you see the Atlantic heave
Like water boiling hot;
Where you come with grief and with joy you leave,
And they call it the Devil’s Pot.
Now there was a witch in the good old time,
And she had such power, they say,
Through rocks or stones or sand or lime,
She could always make her way.
One night on a broom she went with a whirr;
The devil he saw her fly,
And the devil he fell in love with her
As she went sailing by.
She flew like the devil to scape away,
And the devil so did he,
And she jumped from her broom without delay
And she dived to the bottom of the sea.
And she bored a hole when she got down,
And round and round she twirled,
And closed it behind as she went on,
Till she went straight through the world.
And the devil he dived in the water deep,
And he made it boil like pitch
As he roared and raved with many a leap,
But he never could find the witch.
And still he stirs it by night and day,
And seeks and finds her not;
And that is the reason, the sailors say,
Why it’s called the Devil’s Pot.
“They say that there are witches everywhere,”
Said Jones of Chesapeake, “a livin’ free;
Some in the rocks, some flyin’ in the air,
And some, in course, like fishes in the sea.
I’ve often heard strange voices in the night—
They wan’t no birds I’ll swer, nor any sitch—
One called me once by name; it gim’me fright—
And that I’m sartin was a water-witch.
One can’t in nat’ral wise account for that,
All you can call it is a Mr. E——
But there are witches, I will bet a hat;
And so I’ll sing the song of One, Two, Three,
Fust drinkin’ all your healths,”—no more he said,
But in a good round voice went straight ahead:
| [2] | The Devil’s Pot is a place on the North Atlantic route where, according to sailors, there is always bad weather. |