But what were the verses? I could hear the plaintive tenor voice of the chantyman who sang them—now low and almost mournful, now passionate, thrilling up into the night, as though yearning for all that was hid in the heavens. Could a man like that feel things like that? But what were the words he was singing, this yarn he was spinning in his song?
I came around by the foot of the slip and walked rapidly up the dockshed toward one of its wide hatchways. The singing had stopped, but as I drew close a rough voice broke the silence:
"Sing it again, Paddy!"
I looked out. Close by on the deck, in the hard blue glare of an arc-light, were some twenty men, dirty, greasy, ragged, sweating, all gripping the ropes and waiting for Paddy, who rolled his quid in his mouth, spat twice, and then began:
"As I went awalking down Paradise Street
A pretty young maiden I chanced for to meet."
A heave on the ropes and a deafening roar:
"Blow the man down, bullies,
Blow him right down!
Hey! Hey! Blow the man down!"
Again the solo voice, plaintiff and tender:
"By her build I took her for Dutch.
She was square in the stuns'l and bluff in the bow."
The rest was a detailed account of the night spent with the maiden. Roar on roar rose the boisterous chorus: "Blow the man down, bullies, blow him right down!" The big patched, dirty sails went jerking and flapping up toward the stars, which from here were so faint they could barely be seen. And the ship moved out on the harbor.