A few poems of the end of the days of sail, by Canadian raised, but English born C. Fox Smith. They have since been set to music.
Sailortown
Along the wharves in sailor town a singing whisper goes
Of the wind among the anchored ships, the wind that blows
Off a broad brimming water, where the summer day has died
Like a wounded whale a-sounding in the sunset tide.
There's a big China liner gleaming like a gull,
And her lit ports flashing; there's the long gaunt hull
Of a Blue-Funnel freighter with her derricks dark and still;
And a tall barque loading at the lumber mill.
And in the shops of sailor town is every kind of thing
That the sailormen buy there, or the ships' crews bring:
Shackles for a sea-chest and pink cockatoos,
Fifty-cent alarum clocks and dead men's shoes.
You can hear the gulls crying, and the cheerful noise
Of a concertina going, and a singer's voice —
And the wind's song and the tide's song, crooning soft and low
Rum old tunes in sailor town that seamen know.
I dreamed a dream in sailor town, a foolish dream and vain,
Of ships and men departed, of old days come again —
And an old song in sailor town, an old song to sing
When shipmate meets with shipmate in the evening.
The Traveller
I've loops o' string in the place o' buttons, I've mostly holes for a shirt;
My boots are bust and my hat's a goner, I'm gritty with dust an' dirt;
An' I'm sitting here on a bollard watching the China ships go forth,
Seeing the black little tugs come sliding with timber booms from the North.
Sitting and seeing the broad Pacific break at my feet in foam.
Me that was born with a taste for travel in a back alley at home.
They put me to school when I was a nipper at the Board School down in the slums,
And some of the kids was good at spelling and some at figures and sums;
And whether I went or whether I didn't they learned me nothing at all,
Only I'd watch the flies go walking over the maps on the wall,
Strolling over the lakes an' mountains, over the plains an' sea, —
As if they was born with a taste for travel something the same as me!
If I'd been born a rich man's youngster with lots o' money to burn,
It wouldn't ha' gone in marble mansions and statues at every turn,
It wouldn't ha' gone in wine and women, or dogs an' horses an' play,
Nor yet in collecting bricks and bracks in a harmless kind of a way;
I'd ha' paid my fare where I've beat my way (but I couldn't ha' liked it more!),
Me that was born with a taste for travel — the same if you're rich or poor.
I'd ha' gone bowling in yachts and rolling in plush padded Pullman cars, —
The same as I've seen 'em when I lay resting at night-time under the stars,
Me that have beat the ties and rode the bumpers from sea to sea,
Me that have sweated in stokeholds and dined off mouldy salt-horse and tea;
Me that have melted like grease at Perim and froze like boards off the Horn,
All along of a taste for travel that was in me when I was born.
I ain't got folks and I ain't got money, I ain't got nothing at all,
But a sort of a queer old thirst that keeps me moving on till I fall,
And many a time I've been short o' shelter and many a time o' grub,
But I've got away from the rows o' houses, the streets, an' the corner pub —
And here by the side of a sea that's shining under a sky like flame,
Me that was born with a taste for travel, give thanks because o' the same.
LUMBER
If I'd got to choose alone
One of all the freights I've known –
All my cargoes live and dead,
Bacon pigs and pigs of lead,
Cattle, copra, rice and rails,
Pilgrims, coolies, nitrates, nails,
Lima beans and China teas –
What do you think my pick would be?
If I'd got to name the best –
Take just one and leave the rest
Out of all the ports I've known –
Coral beaches white as bone,
All the hot lands and the cold,
Nights of stars and moons like gold,
Tropic smells and Spanish wine,
Whispering palm and singing pine,
All the isles of all the sea –
Where do you think I'd want to be?
Loading lumber long ago
In a ship I used to know,
With the bow-ports open wide
In her stained and rusted side,
And the saws a-screaming shrill
At the Steveston lumber-mill;
Where the Fraser floods and flows
Green and cold with melting snows,
And the tow-boats' wailing din,
As the booms come crawling in,
Fills the echoing creeks with sound,
And there's sawdust all around,
Deep and soft like drifted snow;
Nowhere much a man can go,
Nothing much to see or do,
Mouldiest burg you ever knew…
But I'd give the years between –
All I've done and all I've seen,
All the fooling and the fun,
All the chances lost and won,
All the good times and the bad,
All the memories sweet and sad,
Far and near, by shore and sea,
I would give them all to be
Loading lumber years ago
With the lads I used to know –
Loading lumber all day long
Stacks of scented deals among –
Loading lumber at the mill
Till the screaming saws were still,
And the rose-red sunset died
From the mountains and the tide,
And the night brought out its stars,
And the wind's song in the spars
Of that ship I used to know –
Loading lumber, long ago.
Morgan le Fay
I will put by my violent days, and the ill deeds that I have wrought,
All wayward sins of a wild heart, all empty joys I sought,
I will forswear the fruitless year and the deedless day,
And the long gold tresses and false caresses of Morgan le Fay.
The songs are hollow and empty: the wine is down to the lees:
I am full sick of the witching dance and unclean mysteries:
And the palace of magic and wonder just an ill shadow seems,
Wild feats and vile faces out of evil dreams.
There shall no sleep come nigh me all through the long night,
Where I watch mine arms alone for a space ere I ride forth to fight,
Alone with the cold altar and the cross of my slain Lord,
With the stark helm and the grey mail and the cross-hilted sword.
I have bound the spur to my heel again; I have rent the past like a scroll:
In the bitter waters of sorrow will I wash clean my soul.
I have put by the worthless world and the deedless day,
And the long gold tresses and false caresses of Morgan le Fay.
Cicely Fox Smith 1882-1954 was compared to the likes of Kipling, Stevenson, and Service. Her poems are largely forgotten today, but are being rediscovered, and set to music. All poems brutally pillaged from the website.
The Auld Grump
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(But worry not - I shall resist the urge to reply with The Ballad of Eskimo Nell....)
