(A million pilchards, August 6th, 1912). A Sou' Sou' West was blowin' up to more than half a gale, An' a prutty bit o' billow talked ashore, But there baint no use for seiners as be afeared to sail, When the catches have been runnin' light an' poor, So we plugged out oar to oar. Out along from old Mevagissey,— Beatin' out from old Mevagissey,— With a sky full o' scud blowin' over us, An' a stiddy brazzle plonkin' at the bow.
We shut the seine, an' watched the lights a dancin' green an' red, An' wallowed first to starboard, then to port, Until the dimsey touched the West, an' we was slowin' dead, An' then we knawed 'twas tummals we had caught, For the corks was bobbin' short. Out along from old Mevagissey,— Low lay old Mevagissey,— When the grey dawn showed the shadows over us, An' the brazzle came alippin' at the bow.
We lugged the silver net aboard until the bilge was hid, For crates was little use for such a haul, An' then we let the main-sheet go, an' home along we slid, With the hellum nearly buried in a squall, But we didn' care at all. For it was home along to old Mevagissey, Back along to old Mevagissey, With the dangers of the night blown over us, An' A MILLION PILCHERS slitherin' below.
We tacked into the harbour with the ground-say grindin' hard, An' we bumped to berth at last 'longside the quay, Which was chockered up with barrels so you couldn' step a yard, When we brought our shinin' harvest from the say:— Now 'tis salt an' stawed away. An' we'm home along in old Mevagissey, Home again in old Mevagissey, With the cloud o' winter care blown over us, Whatever winter winds may blow.
DICKY
A year agone, a year agone, our Dicky sailed away; A blue light danced about his eyes like sunshine on the bay, He whissled passin' down along, his heart was glad an' gay, A year agone, a year agone, when Dicky sailed away.
A year agone! a year agone! The time do speed so fast, It scairce do seem a year agone we saw our Dicky last; It seems as if his steps must come aclatterin' to the door, An' he be claimin' payment with his breakfast for the score.
He loved the lanes in springtime an' he loved them at the fall, But when the honeysuckle bloomed he loved them best of all; I mind me how he had a sprig stuck in his cap that day, A year agone, a year agone, when Dicky sailed away.