Classic Poem

All day the cobble dashed,
All day the water splashed
Along her sides;
The wind rose high,
Said Alfred, I can spy
That we must have high tides.

See, father, how the Crested rock,
Proudly flings off the shock
Of hurrying seas,
And yet its height,
Should ere the night,
Be dry beneath the breeze. —

Old Peter shook his head,
And soberly to Alfred said, —
My boy let's take our chance,
And throw the lines,
And let the signs
Of wind and wave go dance. —

So Alfred threw
His sealine in the blue
And rolling wave;
The cobble spun,
The boiling crests among,
And faced the billows brave.

— My hands are cold, —
At last said Peter old, —
Alfred, my boy,
The day must soon be done,
And soon will set the sun,
Then heave-a-hoy. —

Heave-o, heave-o,
The cobble's anchor rises-o,
She whirls away;
The dashing oar,
Dips more and more,
Among the shadows of the day.

Let's make some sail! —
Cried Alfred pale
With the moon's first beam; —
The wind's so high,
Our boat will fly,
Like spirits through a dream. —

Haul up! my lad, —
Said Peter glad,
The sail flew out,
Then dashed against
The mast. — All saints!
Defend us! — said Peter stout.

Then bellying full,
A sudden lull,
Rested them on the foam
Of a high crest;
They saw afar their nest,
And the red light of home.

From chimney top,
The smoke stole up,
As Mary by the fire,
Stood frying neat
Some flounders sweet,
Joe had just speared for her.

— When will they make
The beach, and break
Across the ugly surf?
Said Mary dear,
To Peggy near,
The heaped-up fire of turf.

And Peggy's heart,
From Mary's caught
Half of a mete of woe, —
My Alfred come, —
Cried Peggy, — home, —
Mary, how the wind does blow! —

The little house,
Rocked in the rouse,
And the one window creaked,
A cold, still moon,
Far up looked down,
And into it half-peaked.

'Tis cold, — said Mary, —
As January,
A bitter mad October,
My stars! that blast
I hope the last,
And that they both are sober. —

Meantime the boat,
Sped like a shot,
From some deep cannon's mouth;
The spray flew in,
Amid the din,
There ne'er was such a drouth.

Keep her head strait, —
Said Peter, great
Amid the frantic pother; —
Run her across,
The Devil's horse,
And nothing can her bother. —

The rudder creaked,
The water leaked,
Fast through the surf she flew,
And high she 's beached,
And Peter dashed
Upon the sand below.

The old man lay,
Drenched in the spray,
And Alfred lifted him
Across his back,
And took the track,
To the low cottage dim.

And reached the door,
As Peter o'er,
His trance had fairly come, —
Cried Mary, — See!
Peter! what 's happed to thee? —

Why wife, I have got home!
And Alfred laughed,
And Peter quaffed
Some spirit from the can,
And Peggy saw
What it was for,
And Alfred felt a man.

I guess, — said Alfred,
Father had been dead,
If I had not brought off
His shattered body,
To his glass of toddy,
And was buried half —

And so they ate,
A supper late,
And still the gale blew strong,
But the red fire,
And the mug higher,
Circled with song.

This is a storm, —
Cried Peter warm, —
But we have had our day;
Alfred my boy,
I give you joy,
That we sailed safe away.