The Seven Seas

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT

The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea,An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free —An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one down but me.I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there,For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care,An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod,For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker 'n peas in a pod,An' more pens broke at every roll – so I made a Contract with God.An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same,If He got me to port alive I would exalt His name,An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea,For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me —An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all,An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall,An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seamen's Hospital.An' I spoke to God of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer:"I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear.So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there."For human life is chancy at any kind of trade,But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid;So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said."They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow,They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so;For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know."I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get,An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet,But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set.I have been smit an' bruisèd, as warned would be the case,An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says;But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace.An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm,An' I use no knife nor pistol an' I never take no harm,For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.An' I sign for four pound ten a month and save the money clear,An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer;An' I believe in Almighty God an' I preach His Gospel here.The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong,For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong —Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!

ANCHOR SONG

(From Many Inventions)Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full —Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love —Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;For the wind has come to say:"You must take me while you may,If you'd go to Mother Carey,(Walk her down to Mother Carey!)Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o' that!Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.Port – port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath her foot,And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again —Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.And it's time to clear and quitWhen the hawser grips the bitt,So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!Heh! Tally on! Aft and walk away with her!Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.And it's blowing up for night,And she's dropping Light on Light,And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea.Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.Sick she is and harbour-sick – O sick to clear the land!Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us —Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant gives the door to us,Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud to lee:Till the last, last flicker goesFrom the tumbling water-rows,And we're off to Mother Carey(Walk her down to Mother Carey!)Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

THE SEA-WIFE

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,And a wealthy wife is she;She breeds a breed o' rovin' menAnd casts them over sea,And some are drowned in deep water,And some in sight o' shore.And word goes back to the weary wife,And ever she sends more.For since that wife had gate and gear,And hearth and garth and bield,She willed her sons to the white harvest,And that is a bitter yield.She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,To ride the horse of tree;And syne her sons come home againFar-spent from out the sea.The good wife's sons come home againWith little into their hands,But the lore of men that ha' dealt with menIn the new and naked lands.But the faith of men that ha' brothered menBy more than the easy breath,And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' menIn the open books of death.Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,But poor in the goods o' men,So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teethThey sell for their teeth again.For whether they lose to the naked skin,Or win to their hearts' desire,They tell it all to the weary wifeThat nods beside the fire.Her hearth is wide to every windThat makes the white ash spin;And tide and tide and 'tween the tidesHer sons go out and in;(Out with great mirth that do desireHazard of trackless ways,In with content to wait their watchAnd warm before the blaze);And some return by failing light,And some in waking dream,For she hears the heels of the dripping ghostsThat ride the rough roof-beam.Home, they come home from all the ports,The living and the dead;The good wife's sons come home againFor her blessing on their head!

HYMN BEFORE ACTION

The earth is full of anger,The seas are dark with wrath;The Nations in their harnessGo up against our path!Ere yet we loose the legions —Ere yet we draw the blade,Jehovah of the Thunders,Lord God of Battles, aid!High lust and froward bearing,Proud heart, rebellious brow —Deaf ear and soul uncaring,We seek Thy mercy now:The sinner that forswore Thee,The fool that passed Thee by,Our times are known before Thee —Lord, grant us strength to die!For those who kneel beside usAt altars not Thine own,Who lack the lights that guide us,Lord, let their faith atone;If wrong we did to call them,By honour bound they came;Let not Thy wrath befall them,But deal to us the blame.From panic, pride, and terror,Revenge that knows no rein —Light haste and lawless error,Protect us yet again.Cloak Thou our undeserving,Make firm the shuddering breath,In silence and unswervingTo taste thy lesser death!Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,Remember, reach and saveThe soul that comes to-morrowBefore the God that gave!Since each was born of woman,For each at utter need —True comrade and true foeman,Madonna, intercede!E'en now their vanguard gathers,E'en now we face the fray —As Thou didst help our fathers,Help Thou our host to-day!Fulfilled of signs and wonders,In life, in death made clear —Jehovah of the Thunders,Lord God of Battles, hear!

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

(From Many Inventions)Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I shall not find Thee quick and kind,Nor know Thee till I die:Enough for me in dreams to seeAnd touch Thy garments' hem:Thy feet have trod so near to GodI may not follow them.Through wantonness if men professThey weary of Thy parts,E'en let them die at blasphemyAnd perish with their arts;But we that love, but we that proveThine excellence august,While we adore discover moreThee perfect, wise, and just.Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirredBeyond his belly-need,What is is Thine of fair designIn thought and craft and deed;Each stroke aright of toil and fight,That was and that shall be,And hope too high, wherefore we die,Has birth and worth in Thee.Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in feeTo gild his dross thereby,And knowledge sure that he endureA child until he die —For to make plain that man's disdainIs but new Beauty's birth —For to possess, in loneliness,The joy of all the earth.As Thou didst teach all lovers speech,And Life all mystery,So shalt Thou rule by every schoolTill love and longing die,Who wast or yet the lights were set,A whisper in the Void,Who shalt be sung through planets youngWhen this is clean destroyed.Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,Across the pressing dark,The children wise of outer skiesLook hitherward and markA light that shifts, a glare that drifts,Rekindling thus and thus,Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borneStrange tales to them of us.Time hath no tide but must abideThe servant of Thy will;Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhymeThe ranging stars stand still —Regent of spheres that lock our fearsOur hopes invisible,Oh 'twas certes at Thy decreesWe fashioned Heaven and Hell!Pure Wisdom hath no certain pathThat lacks thy morning-eyne,And captains bold by Thee controlledMost like to Gods design;Thou art the Voice to kingly boysTo lift them through the fight,And Comfortress of Unsuccess,To give the dead good-night —A veil to draw 'twixt God His LawAnd Man's infirmity,A shadow kind to dumb and blindThe shambles where we die;A sum to trick th' arithmeticToo base of leaguing odds,The spur of trust, the curb of lust,Thou handmaid of the Gods!Oh Charity, all patientlyAbiding wrack and scaith!Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheatsYet drops no jot of faith!Devil and brute Thou dost transmuteTo higher, lordlier show,Who art in sooth that lovely TruthThe careless angels know!Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I may not find Thee quick and kind,Nor meet Thee till I die.Yet may I look with heart unshookOn blow brought home or missed —Yet may I hear with equal earThe clarions down the list;Yet set my lance above mischanceAnd ride the barriere —Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,My Lady is not there!

THE FLOWERS

"To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic, almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress, are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote; the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose, nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April as the English thrush." —The Athenæum.

Buy my English posies —Kent and Surrey may,Violets of the UndercliffWet with Channel spray;Cowslips from a Devon combeMidland furze afire —Buy my English posies,And I'll sell your hearts' desire!Buy my English posies! —You that scorn the mayWon't you greet a friend from homeHalf the world away?Green against the draggled drift,Faint and frail and first —Buy my Northern blood-rootAnd I'll know where you were nursed!Robin down the logging-road whistles, "Come to me,"Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free;All the winds o' Canada call the ploughing-rain.Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!Buy my English posies! —Here's to match your need.Buy a tuft of royal heath,Buy a bunch of weedWhite as sand of MuysenbergSpun before the gale —Buy my heath and liliesAnd I'll tell you whence you hail!Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie —Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky —Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain —Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!Buy my English posies! —You that will not turn,Buy my hot-wood clematis,Buy a frond o' fernGathered where the Erskine leapsDown the road to Lorne —Buy my Christmas creeperAnd I'll say where you were born!West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin —They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn —Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main —Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!Buy my English posies! —Here's your choice unsold!Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,Buy the kowhai's goldFlung for gift on Taupo's faceSign that spring is come —Buy my clinging myrtleAnd I'll give you back your home!Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine —Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine —Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain —Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!Buy my English posies!Ye that have your ownBuy them for a brother's sakeOverseas, alone.Weed ye trample underfootFloods his heart abrim —Bird ye never heeded,Oh, she calls his dead to him!Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas.Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land —Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand!

THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS

The King has called for priest and cup,The King has taken spur and bladeTo dub True Thomas a belted knight,And all for the sake o' the songs he made.They have sought him high, they have sought him low,They have sought him over down and lea;They have found him by the milk-white thornThat guards the gates o' Faerie.'Twas bent beneath and blue above,Their eyes were held that they might not seeThe kine that grazed between the knowes,Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie!"Now cease your song," the King he said,"Oh, cease your song and get you dightTo vow your vow and watch your arms,For I will dub you a belted knight."For I will give you a horse o' pride,Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,And land to hold at your desire."True Thomas smiled above his harp,And turned his face to the naked sky,Where, blown before the wastrel wind,The thistle-down she floated by."I ha' vowed my vow in another place,And bitter oath it was on me,I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,Where five-score fighting-men would flee."My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame,My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;And I won my spurs in the Middle World,A thousand fathoms beneath the mould."And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride,And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,But spill the rings o' the Gentle FolkAnd flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?"And what should I make wi' blazon and belt,Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,And what should I do wi' page and squireThat am a king in my own countrie?"For I send east and I send west,And I send far as my will may flee,By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,And syne my Sendings return to me."They come wi' news of the groanin' earth,They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea,Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,And man that's mazed among the three."The King he bit his nether lip,And smote his hand upon his knee:"By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas," he said,"Ye waste no wit in courtesie!"As I desire, unto my pride,Can I make Earls by three and three,To run before and ride behindAnd serve the sons o' my body.""And what care I for your row-foot earls,Or all the sons o' your body?Before they win to the Pride o' Name,I trow they all ask leave o' me."For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth,As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet,To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross,Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street."And some they give me the good red gold,And some they give me the white money,And some they give me a clout o' meal,For they be people o' low degree."And the song I sing for the counted goldThe same I sing for the white money,But best I sing for the clout o' mealThat simple people given me."The King cast down a silver groat,A silver groat o' Scots money,"If I come with a poor man's dole," he said,"True Thomas, will ye harp to me?""Whenas I harp to the children small,They press me close on either hand:And who are you," True Thomas said,"That you should ride while they must stand?"Light down, light down from your horse o' pride,I trow ye talk too loud and hie,And I will make you a triple word,And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me."He has lighted down from his horse o' pride,And set his back against the stone."Now guard you well," True Thomas said,"Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!"True Thomas played upon his harp,The fairy harp that couldna' lee,And the first least word the proud King heard,It harpit the salt tear out o' his ee."Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne,I touch the hope that I may not see,And all that I did o' hidden shame,Like little snakes they hiss at me."The sun is lost at noon – at noon!The dread o' doom has grippit me.True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,God wot, I'm little fit to dee!"'Twas bent beneath and blue above —'Twas open field and running flood —Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall,The high sun warmed the adder's brood."Lie down, lie down," True Thomas said."The God shall judge when all is done;But I will bring you a better wordAnd lift the cloud that I laid on."True Thomas played upon his harp,That birled and brattled to his hand,And the next least word True Thomas made,It garred the King take horse and brand."Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting-men,I see the sun on splent and spear!I mark the arrow outen the fern!That flies so low and sings so clear!"Advance my standards to that war,And bid my good knights prick and ride;The gled shall watch as fierce a fightAs e'er was fought on the Border side!"'Twas bent beneath and blue above,'Twas nodding grass and naked sky,Where ringing up the wastrel windThe eyass stooped upon the pye.True Thomas sighed above his harp,And turned the song on the midmost string;And the last least word True Thomas madeHe harpit his dead youth back to the King."Now I am prince, and I do wellTo love my love withouten fear;To walk wi' man in fellowship,And breathe my horse behind the deer."My hounds they bay unto the death,The buck has couched beyond the burn,My love she waits at her windowTo wash my hands when I return."For that I live am I content(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes!)To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,And run in the woods o' Paradise!"'Twas nodding grass and naked sky,'Twas blue above and bent below,Where, checked against the wastrel wind,The red deer belled to call the doe.True Thomas laid his harp away,And louted low at the saddle-side;He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,And set the King on his horse o' pride."Sleep ye or wake," True Thomas said,"That sit so still, that muse so long;Sleep ye or wake? – till the latter sleepI trow ye'll not forget my song."I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sunTo stand before your face and cry;I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel,And over your head I ha' dusked the sky!"I ha' harpit ye up to the Throne o' God,I ha' harpit your secret soul in three;I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,And – ye – would – make – a Knight o' me!"

THE STORY OF UNG

Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.Fashioned the form of a tribesman – gaily he whistled and sung,Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!Pleased was his tribe with that image – came in their hundreds to scan —Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: "Verily, this is a man!Thus do we carry our lances – thus is a war-belt slung.Ay, it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!"Later he pictured an aurochs – later he pictured a bear —Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair —Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone —Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still —Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill,Hunters and fishers and trappers – presently whispering low;"Yea, they are like – and it may be… But how does the Picture-man know?"Ung – hath he slept with the Aurochs – watched where the Mastodon roam?Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head – followed the Sabre-tooth home?Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,How is there truth in his image – the man that he fashioned of snow?"Wroth was that maker of pictures – hotly he answered the call:"Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!" Swift from the tumult he broke,Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:"If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,And each man would make him a picture, and – what would become of my son?"There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,Nor dole of the oily timber that strands with the Baltic drift;No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale."Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,Nor worked the war-boats outward, through the rush of the rock-staked seas,Yet they bring thee fish and plunder – full meal and an easy bed —And all for the sake of thy pictures." And Ung held down his head."Thou hast not stood to the aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright:And the heart of the hairy mammoth thou sayest they do not see,Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee."And now do they press to thy pictures, with open mouth and eye,And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:But – sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain —Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again."And Ung looked down at his deerskins – their broad shell-tasselled bands —And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:"Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!"Straight on that glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone —Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!

THE THREE-DECKER

"The three-volume novel is extinct."Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best —The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.Fair held our breeze behind us – 'twas warm with lovers' prayers:We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs;They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.Carambas and serapés we waved to every wind,We smoked good Corpo Bacco when our sweethearts proved unkind;With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessedWe also took our manners to the Islands of the Blest.We asked no social questions – we pumped no hidden shame —We never talked obstetrics when the little stranger came:We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.We weren't exactly Yussufs, but – Zuleika didn't tell!No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared,The villain got his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.'Twas fiddles in the foc'sle – 'twas garlands on the mast,For every one got married, and I went ashore at last.I left 'em all in couples akissing on the decks.I left the lovers loving and the parents signing checks.In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed,I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest!That route is barred to steamers: you'll never lift againOur purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.They're just beyond the skyline, howe'er so far you cruiseIn a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.Swing round your aching search-light – 'twill show no haven's peace!Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas!Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest —But you aren't a knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest.And when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,On a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head;While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shineUnvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine.Hull down – hull down and under – she dwindles to a speck,With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.All's well – all's well aboard her – she's dropped you far behind,With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?Well, tinker up your engines – you know your business best —She's taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!