CHARLES DIBDIN'S SEA SONGS.
( Followed by
Charles Wolfe's The Burial of Sir John Moore;
and poems by Pierre Beranger and J T Trowbridge. )
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GRIEVING'S A FOLLY.
Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, so jolly,
Though winds
blew great guns, still he'd whistle and sing,
For Jack loved his friend, and was true to his Molly,
And, if honor
gives greatness, was great as a king.
One night as we drove with two reefs in the mainsail,
And the scud
came on low'ring upon a lee shore,
Jack went up aloft for to hand the topg'ant sail --,
A spray washed
him off, and we ne' er saw him more:
But grieving's a folly,
Come let us be jolly;
If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.
Whiffling Tom, still of
mischief or fun in the middle,
Through life in all weathers at random would
jog;
He'd dance, and he'd sing, and he'd play on the fiddle,
And swig with
an air his allowance of grog:
'Longside of a Don, in the " Terrible" frigate,
As yardarm and
yardarm we layoff the shore,
In and out whiffling Tom did so caper and jig it,
That his head
was shot off, and we ne'er saw him more:
But grieving's a folly,
Come let us be jolly;
If we've troubles on sea,
boys, we've pleasures on shore.
Bonny Ben was to each jolly
messmate a brother,
He was manly and honest, good-natured and
free;
If ever one tar was more true than another
To his
friend and his duty, that sailor was he:
One day with the davit to weigh the kedge anchor,
Ben went in
the boat on a bold craggy shore
He overboard tipped, when a shark and a spanker
Soon nipped
him in two, and we ne'er saw him more:
But
grieving's a folly,
Come
let us be jolly;
If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.
But what of it all, lads? shall we be downhearted
Because that
mayhap we now take our last sup?
Life's cable
must one day or other be parted,
And Death in
safe moorings will bring us all up.
But 'tis always the way on't -- one scarce finds a brother
Fond as pitch,
honest, hearty, and true to the core,
But by battle, or storm, or some damned thing or other,
He's popped
off the hooks, and we ne'er see him more!
But
grieving's a folly,
Come
let us be jolly;
If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.
HONESTY IN TATTERS.
This here's what I does - I, d'ye see, forms a notion
That our
troubles, our sorrows and strife,
Are the winds and the billows that foment the ocean,
As we work
through the passage of life.
And for fear on life's sea lest the vessel should founder,
To lament and
to weep, and to wail,
Is a pop gun that tries to outroar a nine-pounder,
All the same
as a whiff in a gale.
Why now I, though hard fortune has pretty near starved me,
And my togs
are all ragged and queer,
Ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend who had served me,
Or caused
ruined beauty a tear.
Now there t'other day, when my messmate deceived me,
Stole my
rhino, my chest, and our Poll,
Do you think in revenge, while their treachery grieved me,
I a
court-martial called? - Not at all.
This here on the matter was my way of arg'ing
'Tis true they
han't left me a cross;
A vile wife and false friend though are gone by the bargain,
So the gain
d'ye see's more than the loss:
For though fortune's a jilt, and has pretty near starved me,
And my togs
are all ragged and queer,
I ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend who had served me,
Or caused
ruined beauty a tear.
The heart's all-when that's built as it should, sound and clever,
We go 'fore
the wind like a fly,
But if rotten and crank, you may luff up forever,
You'll always
sail in the wind's eye:
With palaver and nonsense I'm not to be paid off,
I'm adrift,
let it blow then great guns,
A gale, a fresh breeze, or the old gemman's head off,
I takes life
rough and smooth as it runs:
Content,
though hard fortune has pretty near starved me
And my togs are all ragged and
queer;
I ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend who had served
me,
Or caused ruined beauty a
tear.
NATURE AND NANCY.
Let swabs, with their wows, their palaver, and lies,
Sly
flattery's silk sails still be trimming,
Swear their Polls be all angels dropped down from the skies
I your angels don't like - I loves women. .
And I loves a warm heart, and a sweet honest mind,
Good
as truth, and as lively as fancy;
As constant as honor, as tenderness kind;
In
short, I loves Nature and Nancy.
I read in a song about Wenus, I thinks,
All
rigged out with her Cupids and Graces:
And how roses and lilies, carnations and pinks,
Was
made paint to daub over their faces.
They that loves it may take all such art for their pains-
For mine 'tis another
guess fancy;
Give me the rich health, flesh and blood, and blue veins,
That pays the sweet face of my Nancy.
Why, I went to the play, where they talked well at least,
As to act all their
parts they were trying;
They were playing at soldiers, and playing at feast,
And some they was
playing at dying.
Let 'em hang, drown, or starve, or take poison, d'ye see..
All
just for their gig and their fancy;
What to them was but jest is right earnest to me,
For
I live and I'd die for my Nancy.
Let the girls then, like so many Algerine Turks,
Dash
away, a fine gay painted galley,
With their jacks, and their pennants, and gingerbread
works,
All
for show, and just nothing for value
False colors throw out, decked by labor and art,
To
take of pert coxcombs the
fancy;
They are all for the person, I'm all for the heart
In
short, I'm for Nature and Nancy.
THE STANDING TOAST.
(The last song written by Mr. Dibdin.)
The moon on the ocean was dimmed by a ripple,
Affording a checkered delight,
The gay jolly tars passed the word for the tipple
And the toast
-- for 'twas Saturday night:
Some sweetheart or wife that he loved as his life,
Each drank,
while he wished he could hail her;
But the standing toast that pleased the most
Was -- The wind
that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass
that loves a sailor!
Some drank the king and his brave ships,
And some the
constitution,
Some -- May our foes and all such rips
Own English
resolution!
That fate might bless some Poll or Bess,
And that they
soon might hail her:
But the standing toast that pleased the most
Was -- The wind
that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass
that loves a sailor!
Some drank our queen, and some our land,
Our glorious
land of freedom!
Some that our tars might never stand
For our heroes
brave to lead 'em!
That beauty in distress might find
Such friends
as ne'er would fail her:
But the standing toast that pleased the most
Was -- The wind
that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass
that loves a sailor!
Charles Dibdin,
1745 - 1814, English songwright and playwright.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
By CHARLES WOLFE.
( 1791 - 1823 )
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse
to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the
grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with
our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the
lanthorn dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Not in sheet
or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around
him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke
not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we
bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed
down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far
away on the billow;
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his
cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reek, if they let him sleep on
In the grave
where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock
struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe
was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him
down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we
raised not a stone --
But we left him alone with his glory.
PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER.
( 1780 - 1857 )
FIFTY
YEARS.
(CINQUANTE ANS.)
( Translated by Walter Learned. )
Wherefore these flowers? floral applause?
Ah, no, these
blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty
years to-day.
O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments
lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am
fifty now!
Sad age, when we pursue no more
Fruit dies
upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.
Nay, open not.
'Tis not for me,
Or else the doctor calls. Not yet
Must I expect
his studious bow.
Once I'd have called, "Come in, Lizzette"
Alas, for I am
fifty now!
In age what aches and pains abound:
The torturing
gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness
that provokes a smile.
Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim
With
flickering ray. Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him
Alas, for I
am fifty now!
Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
Who rubs his
hands in joyous mood;
The sexton knocks and I must go, --
Farewell, my
friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new
heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am
fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my
soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the somber truth,
This incubus
of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your
roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again --
Alas, for I am
fifty now!
THE OLD TRAMP.
(LE VIEUX VAGABOND.)
(Translated by F. M.)
Here in this
gutter let me die;
Weary and
sick and old, I've done.
"He's
drunk," will say the passers-by;
All right,
I want no pity, -none.
I see the
heads that turn away,
While
others glance and toss me sous,
" Off to
your junket! go," I say:
Old tramp - to die I need no help from you.
Yes, of old
age I'm dying now
Of hunger
people never die.
I hoped some
almshouse might allow
A refuge
when the end was nigh;
But all
retreats are overflowed,
Such
crowds are suffering and forlorn.
My nurse,
alas! has been the road:
Old tramp-let me die here where I was born.
When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen,
"Let me learn your trade: "
"Clear out-we've got no work to spare:
Go beg,"
was all reply they made.
You rich, who bade me work, I've fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed:
Old tramp -- I have no curse to vent on you.
Poor wretch, how easy 'twas to steal!
But no, I'd rather beg my bread.
At most I've thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead.
Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison, -- 'twas the King's decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own:
Old tramp -- at least the sun belongs to me.
The poor - is any country his?
What are to me your grain, your wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators? They are not mine.
And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that:
Old tramp -- his hand was open to my calls.
Why, like the venomous bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could?
Or, better yet, have taught me skill
To labor for the common good?
The grub a useful ant may end
If sheltered from the blast and fed;
And so might I have been your friend:
Old tramp -- I die your enemy instead.
DOROTHY IN THE GARRET.
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
IN the low-raftered
garret, stooping
Carefully over
the creaking boards,
Old maid Dorothy goes a groping
Among its
dusty and cobwebbed hoards;
Seeking some bundle of patches, hid
Far under the
eaves, or bunch of sage,
Or satchel, hung on its nail amid
The heirlooms
of a bygone age.
There is the ancient family chest,
There the
ancestral cards and hatchel ;
Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,
Forgetful of
patches, sage, and satchel.
Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom
Of the
chimney, where, with swifts and reel,
And the long disused, dismantled loom,
Stands the old-fashioned
spinning wheel.
She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,
A part of her
girlhood's little world;
Her mother is there by the window, stitching;
Spindle
buzzes, and reel is whirled,
With many a click; on her little stool
She sits, a
child, by the open door,
Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool
Of sunshine
spilled on the gilded floor.
Her sisters are spinning all day long;
To her waking
sense, the first sweet warning
Of daylight come, is the cheerful song
To the hum of
the wheel, in the early morning.
Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,
On his way to
school, peeps in at the gate:
In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy,
She reaches a
hand to her bashful mate;
And under the elms, a prattling pair,
Together they
go, through glimmer and gloom --
It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the
low-raftered garret room;
The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather,
The heart's
first trouble, and love's beginning,
Are all in her memory linked together;
And now it is
she herself that is spinning.
With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,
Turning the
spokes with the flashing pin,
Twisting the thread from the spindle tip,
Stretching it
out and winding it in,
To and fro, with a blithesome tread,
Singing she
goes, and her heart is fun,
And many a long-drawn golden thread
Of fancy is
spun with the shining wool.
Her father sits in his favorite place,
Puffing his
pipe by the chimney side;
Through curling clouds, his kindly face
Glows upon her with love and
pride.
Lulled by the wheel, in the old armchair
Her mother is
musing, cat in lap,
With beautiful drooping head, and hair
Whitening
under her snow-white cap.
One by one, to the grave, to the bridal,
They have
followed her sisters from the door;
Now they are old, and she is their idol --
It all comes
back on her heart once more.
In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly,
The wheel is
set by the shadowy wall --
A hand at the latch -- 'tis lifted lightly,
And in walks
Benjie, manly and tall.
His chair is placed: the old man tips
The pitcher,
and brings his choicest fruit;
Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips,
And tells his
story, and joints his flute.
Oh, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter!
They fill the
hour with a glowing tide;
But sweeter the still, deep moments after,
When she is
alone by Benjie's side.
But once with angry words they part;
Oh, then the
weary, weary days!
Ever with restless, wretched heart,
Plying her
task, she turns to gaze
Far up the road; and early and late
She harks for
a footstep at the door,
And starts at the gust that swings the gate,
And prays for
Benjie, who comes no more.
Her fault? Oh, Benjie! and could you steel
Your thoughts
toward one who loved you so?
Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,
In duty and
love, that lighten woe;
Striving with labor, not in vain,
To drive away
the dull day's dreariness;
Blessing the toil that blunts the pain
Of a deeper
grief in the body's weariness.
Proud, and petted, and spoiled was she;
A word, and
all her life is changed!
His wavering love too easily
In the great,
gay city grows estranged.
One year: she sits in the old church pew;
A rustle, a murmur-- oh, Dorothy, hide
Your face, and shut from your soul the view!
'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!
Now father and mother have long been dead,
And the bride
sleeps under a churchyard stone,
And a bent old man, with grizzled head,
Walks up the
long, dim aisle alone.
Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy
Sits doubting
betwixt the ghost she seems
And the phantom of youth, more real than she,
That meets her
there in that haunt of dreams.
Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,
Sought by many
a youthful adorer,
Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,
Shining an
endless vista before her!
Old maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
Groping under
the farmhouse eaves,
And life is a brief November day,
That sets on a
world of withered leaves!
Yet faithfulness in the humblest part
Is better at
last than proud success;
And patience and love in a chastened heart
Are pearls
more precious than happiness:
And in that morning when she shall wake
To the
springtime freshness of youth again,
All trouble will seem but a flying flake,
And lifelong
sorrow a breath on the pane.
THE CHARCOAL MAN
By JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
THOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His somber face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries, --
" Charco'! charco'!"
While echo faint and far replies, --
"Hark, O! hark, O!"
"Charco'! " -- "Hark, O ! " -- Such cheery sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.
The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;
'Tis odd to see his sooty form
All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies
Nor spot, nor speck, -- though still he cries,
" Charco'! charco'!"
And many a roguish lad replies,
" Ark, ho! ark, ho! "
"Charco' ! " -- " Ark, ho! " -- Such various sounds
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.
Thus all the cold and wintry day
He labors much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,
" Charco'! charco'!"
And Martha from the door replies,
"Mark, ho! Mark, ho!"
"Charco' ! " -- " Mark, ho !" -- Such joy abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds.
The hearth is warm, the fire is bright
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,
His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies,
And in a coaxing tone he cries,
" Charco'! charco'!"
And baby with a laugh replies,
"Ah, go! ah, go!"
"Charco'!" -" Ah, go!" -- while at the sounds
The mother's heart with gladness bounds.
Then honored be the charcoal man!
Though dusky as an African,
'Tis not for you, that chance to be
A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries,
" Charco'! charco' ! "
While mocking echo still replies,
"Hark, O! hark, 0! "
"Charco' ! " -- " Hark, O! " -- Long may the sounds
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!
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