ONE OF WALLY’S YARNS
The watch was up on the topsail-yard a-making fast the sail,
’N’ Joe was swiggin’ his gasket taut, ’n’ I felt the stirrup give,
’N’ he dropped sheer from the tops’l-yard ’n’ barely cleared the rail,
’N’ o’ course, we bein’ aloft, we couldn’t do nothin’—
We couldn’t lower a boat and go a-lookin’ for him,
For it blew hard ’n’ there was sech a sea runnin’
That no boat wouldn’t live.
I seed him rise in the white o’ the wake, I seed him lift a hand
(’N’ him in his oilskin suit ’n’ all), I heard him lift a cry;
’N’ there was his place on the yard ’n’ all, ’n’ the stirrup’s busted strand.
’N’ the old man said there’s a cruel old sea runnin’,
A cold green Barney’s Bull of a sea runnin’;
It’s hard, but I ain’t agoin’ to let a boat be lowered:
So we left him there to die.
He couldn’t have kept afloat for long an’ him lashed up ’n’ all,
’N’ we couldn’t see him for long, for the sea was blurred with the sleet ’n’ snow,
’N’ we couldn’t think of him much because o’ the snortin’, screamin’ squall.
There was a hand less at the halliards ’n’ the braces,
’N’ a name less when the watch spoke to the muster-roll,
’N’ a empty bunk ’n’ a pannikin as wasn’t wanted
When the watch went below.
A VALEDICTION (LIVERPOOL DOCKS)
A CRIMP. A DRUNKEN SAILOR.
Is there anything as I can do ashore for you
When you’ve dropped down the tide?—
You can take ’n’ tell Nan I’m goin’ about the world agen
’N’ that the world’s wide.
’N’ tell her that there ain’t no postal service
Not down on the blue sea.
’N’ tell her that she’d best not keep her fires alight
Nor set up late for me.
’N’ tell her I’ll have forgotten all about her
Afore we cross the Line.
’N’ tell her that the dollars of any other sailor-man
Is as good red gold as mine.