Classic Poem

He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea,
WitHear-rings of brass and a jumper of dungaree,
" 'N' many a queer lash-up have I seen, " says he.

" But the toughest hooray o' the racket, " he says, " I'll be sworn,
'N' the roughest traverse I worked since the day I was born,
Was a packet o' Sailor's Delight as I scoffed in the seas o' the Horn.

" All day long in the calm she had rolled to the swell,
Rolling through fifty degrees till she clattered her bell;
'N' then came snow, 'n' a squall, 'n' a wind was colder 'n' hell.

" It blew like the Bull of Barney, a beast of a breeze,
'N' over the rail come the cold green lollopin' seas,
'N' she went ashore at the dawn on the Ramirez.

" She was settlin' down by the stern when I got to the deck,
Her waist was a smother o' sea as was up to your neck,
'N' her masts were gone, 'n' her rails, 'n' she was a wreck.

" We rigged up a tackle, a purchase, a sort of a shift,
To hoist the boats off o' the deck-house and get them adrift,
When her stern gives a sickenin' settle, her bows give a lift,

" 'N' smash comes a crash of green water as sets me afloat
With freezing fingers clutching the keel of a boat —
The bottom-up whaler — 'n' that was the juice of a note.

" Well, I clambers acrost o' the keel 'n' I gets me secured,
When I sees a face in the white o' the smother to looard,
So I gives 'm a 'and, 'n' be shot if it wasn't the stooard!

" So he climbs up forrard o' me, 'n' " thanky," a' says,
'N' we sits 'n' shivers 'n' freeze to the bone wi' the sprays,
'N' I sings " Abel Brown," 'n' the stooard he prays.

" Wi' never a dollop to sup nor a morsel to bite,
The lips of us blue with the cold 'n' the heads of us light,
Adrift in a Cape Horn sea for a day 'n' a night.

" 'N' then the stooard goes dotty 'n' puts a tune to his lip,
'N' moans about Love like a dern old hen wi' the pip —
(I sets no store upon stooards — they ain't no use on a ship).

" 'N' " mother," the looney cackles, " come 'n' put Willy to bed!"
So I says " Dry up, or I'll fetch you a crack o' the head";
" The kettle's a-bilin'," he answers, " 'n' I'll go butter the bread."

" 'N' he falls to singin' some slush about clinkin' a can,
'N' at last he dies, so he does, 'n' I tells you, Jan,
I was glad when he did, for he weren't no fun for a man.

" So he falls forrard, he does, 'n' he closes his eye,
'N' quiet he lays 'n' quiet I leaves him lie,
'N' I was alone with his corp, 'n' the cold green sea and the sky.

" 'N' then I dithers, I guess, for the next as I knew
Was the voice of a mate as was sayin' to one of the crew,
" Easy, my son, wi' the brandy, be shot if he ain't comin' to!" "