II.
Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missed
By all on British soil;
Be aisy now and hold your whist,
He'll go no more for Hoyle!
No more he'll see the billows curl
In north Atlantic gales;
No more the keen harpoon he'll hurl
At spermaceti whales.
Ah! never more he'll heave the log—
A harsh decree was Fate's;
He took an over-dose of grog
When up in Be(e)hring Straits.
Death blew a bitter blast and chill
Which struck his sails aback,
And round the corse of Workhouse Bill
They wound a Union Jack.
A "longing, lingering look" they cast,
Then sewed him in a bag,
And half way up the lofty mast
They hoist the drooping flag.
His mess-mates crossways tossed the yards,
Askew they hung the sails,
Eschewed tobacco, rum, and cards,
And filled the ship with wails
The grief-struck skipper drank some grog,
Of solace he had need,
And made an entry in the log
No livin' soul could read.
And then a ghastly laugh he laughed
His spirits to exhalt,
And then he called the boatswain aft
And mustered every salt
The whalers gave one final howl,
And cursed their hard, hard lucks;
They came, and though the wind was foul,
They wore their whitest ducks.
[Original]
The captain—kindest, best of men—
Strove hard his breath to catch;
(Crouched like an incubating hen,
Upon the after-hatch).
He said as how the time was come
To Bill to say good-bye;
And tears of water and of rum,
Stood in each manly eye.
Said he, "My lads, dispel this gloom,
"Bid grief and sorrow halt;
"For if the sea must be his tomb,
"D'ye see it aint his f(v)ault.
"' Tis true we'll never see his like
"At 'cutting in' a whale—
"At usin knife an' marlin-spike,
"But blubber won't avail.
"Soh! steady lads, belay all that!
"'Vast heaving sobs and sighs;
"Don't never go to 'whip the cat'
"For William, bless his eyes!
"I knew him lads when first he shipped,
"And this is certain, that
"Though William by the 'cat ' was whipped,
"He never 'whipped the cat!"
The skipper read the service through,
And snivelled in his sleeve,
While calm and still, old work'us Bill
Awaits the final heave.
He had no spicy hearse and three,
No gay funereal car;
But, at the word, souse in the sea
They pitch that luckless tar.
Short-handed then those whalemen toil
Upon their oily cruise,
And many and many a cruse of oil
For want of Bill they lose.
The mate and captain in despair
His cruel fate deplore;
His mess-mates swore they never were
In such a mess before.
The crew, who had a bitter cup
To drink with their salt-horse,
When next they hauled the mainsel up,
Bewailed his missin corse. *
* Mizen-course o' course.
Alas! his corpse had downward sunk,
His soul hath upward sped,
And Will hath left a sailor's 'bunk'
To share an oyster's bed.
We hope his resting place will suit—
We trust he's happy now—
Laid where the pigs can never root,
Lulled by the ocean's sough.
[Original]
[Original]
This Christmas-eve? This stifling night?
The leaves upon the trees?
The temperature by Farenheit
Some ninety odd degrees?
Ah me! my thoughts were off at score
To Christmases I've passed,
Before upon this Southern shore
My weary lot was cast.
To Christmases of ice and snow,
And stormy nights and dark;
To holly-boughs and mistletoe,
And skating in the Park
To vast yule-logs and yellow fogs
Of the vanished days of yore—
To the keen white frost, and the home that's lost,
The home that's mine no more.
'Twas passing nice through snow and ice
To drive to distant "hops,"
But here, alas! the only ice
Is in the bars and shops!
I've Christmased since those palmy days
In many a varied spot,
And suffered many a weary phase
Of Christmas cold and hot.
When cherished hopes were stricken down-
Hopes born but to be lost—
And when the world's chill blighting frown
Seemed colder than the frost.
'Tis hard to watch—when from within
The heart all hope has flown—
The old year out, the new year in,
Unfriended and alone
When whispers seem to rise and tell
Of scenes you used to know—
You almost hear the very bells
You heard so long ago.
I've Christmased in a leaky tub
Where briny billows roll,
And Christmased in the Mulga scrub
Beside a water-hole.
With ague in my aching joints,
And in my quivering bones;
My bed, the rough uneven points
Of sharp and jaggèd stones.
Where life a weary burden was
With all the varied breeds
Of creeping things with pointed stings,
And snakes, and centipedes.
'Twas not a happy Christmas that:
How can one happy be
With bull-dog ants inside your hat,
And black ants in your tea?
Australian child, what cans't thou know
Of Christmas in its prime?
Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,
As in yon northern clime.
Thou hast not seen the vales and dells
Arrayed in gleaming white,
Nor heard the sledge's silver bells
Go tinkling through the night.
For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;
Thou hast instead of this
Only the dust-storm's eddying swirls—
The hot-wind's scalding kiss!
What can'st thou know of frozen lakes,
Or Hyde—that Park divine?
For, though by no means lacking snakes,
Thou hast no "Serpentine."
Thou hast not panted, yearned to cut
Strange figures out with skates,
Nor practised in the water-butt,
Nor heard those dismal "waits."
For thee no "waits" lugubrious voice
Breaks forth in plaintive wail;
Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!
That balances the scale.
I see in fancy once again
The London streets at night—
Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane—
Each well remembered sight.
Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheet
Is over street and square,
And silently now fall the feet,
Of those who linger there.
I see a wretch with hunger bold
(An Ishmaelite 'mong men)
Crawl from some hovel dark and cold—
Some foul polluted den—
A wretch who never learnt to pray,
And wearily he drags
His life along from day to day
In wretchedness and rags.
I see a wandering carriage lamp
Glide silently and slow;
The night-policeman's heavy tramp
Is muffled by the snow.
I hear the mournful chaunt ascend
('Tis meaningless to you)
"We're frozen out, hard-working men,
We've got no work to do!"
All, all the many sounds and sights
Come trooping through my brain
Of London streets, and winter nights,
And pleasure mixed with pain.
Be happy you who have a home,
Be happy while you may,
For sorrow's ever quick to come,
And slow to pass away.
Your churches and your dwellings deck
With ferns and flowers fair;
I would not breathe a word to check
The mirth I cannot share.
For, though my barque's a shattered hull,
And I could be at best
But like the famed Egyptian skull,
A mirth-destroying guest,
I would not play the cynic's part,
Nor at thy pleasure sneer—
I wish thee, Reader, from my heart,
A happy, glad New year.