THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW

She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a

weary, lear y list,

An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;

She’s sound in ev’ry timber—is the Mary of

the Mist,

But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign

that she’s for sale.

Yet no one wants to try her,

She cannot find a buyer—

The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the

tale.

(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as

plain can be,

An’ ’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets

of the sea.)

Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward

Island, signed

With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a

“chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;

An’ when we counted noses as we rounded

Giant’s Grist

We found the chap among us on the Mary of

the Mist.

An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d

fairly got to sea;

The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as

mean could be;

“P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward

Islander.

Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret

at the mast,

An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled

him fast.

The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d

driven in a nail—

Oh, we understood him perfect—he was raisin’

up a gale.

The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage

then was done—

The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of

the sun.

Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal-

lered to the east,

An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of

wind an’ yeast.

We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed

an’ ratched to west,

There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was

never chance for rest,

With the liners slammin’ past us through the

fog an’ spume an’ rain,

An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a

lane.

The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty

ragged wash,

The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all

a-swash,

An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’

to’ards the shoals,

Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our

canvas rags an’ holes.

T ack—tack—tack—

Still a-slippin’ back;

‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects

for our souls.

Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’,

glarin’ glance,

An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’

where I look!

I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a

chance,

But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot

mistook.

I reckon ye discern him,

Now over goes he, durn him,

Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s

brought, by hook or crook.”

(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we

bent our gaze upon

The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.—

Perkinson.)

He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d

reckoned that he would,

He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I

meant ye good.

I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped

an’ got away;

Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I

owe a debt I’ll pay.”

He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car-

ried spare,

An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with

care.

Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on

the bait

A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to

calkerlate.

He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line

run free,

An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the

sea,

We didn’t get the language of the secret spells

he said,

But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest

ocean bed.

We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed

that he could tell

What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight

straight from hell.

“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the

line a twig—

An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful

Wah-hooh-wow.

We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red

tongue lick

As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and

then, as one might pick

A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con-

jer” man

An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from

old Cape Ann,

An’ we—we towed with dories till we got to

Gloucester shore—

An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary

any more.

No—no—no!

Not a man will go,

For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah-

hooh-wow takes four.

She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a

weary, leary list,