JOHNNIE CHANTEY-MAN At a ship's wings in the offing, Shall latch his gate behind him, Though his cattle call from the byre-side, Who looks too long in the twilight, Or the dawn-light, or the noon-light, And hungers past content, Shall pack his chest for the world's end, 57 JOHNNIE CHANTEY-MAN Johnnie Parrot, Johnnie Parrot, I'll not hear again That old voice of yours a-ringin' down the windy rain, When the ocean morning's clearin' an' the gale is past, An' we're all a-"yo-heave-ho-in'" by the big main mast. Johnnie Parrot, Johnnie Parrot, I can see 'em Southeast trade wind seas a-breakin' high about the bow. I can see the yellow oilskins of a shoutin' crew, And the "Roll the cotton, bullies, roll her," led by you. I can see the skipper leanin' on the bridge's rail; Hear him holler to the chief mate, "Crowd her set all sail!" I can feel the clipper leapin', as a colt untried, Free to roam the rollin' pastures o' the open tide. I see the China steward, the nigger cookie's face; There's a skysail ship to loo'ard, an' we're goin' to race; But a black squall comes a-hidin' all the sea an' sky, An' white horses run a-ridin' with their manes blown high. I can feel the packet tremble as she lifts her feet, An' her dainty bows go dancin' down the sea's wide street; I hear Johnnie Parrot singin', singin', "Roll an' go!" An' the sons o' forty seaports roarin', "Yoheave-ho!" There are girls in forty seaports, an' they wait for you Wait for Johnnie Chantey-man an' all his singin' crew; But they'd better deck their tresses with bright ribbons gay, An' forget those sailors singin' down the sea's cold way. For the hungry seas are breakin' with an angry roar, An' there's black squalls blowin' pipin' past a coral shore. MERCANTILE JACK 59 There's a clipper lyin' broken like a lily fair- 'Tain't no use to love a sailor nor to wait the day For your Johnnie's chanteys cheery ringin' down the bay! 'Tain't no use to listen, lady, for your seaman's love Johnnie's drownded, lyin' drownded, in a mer maid's cove. Bill Adams MERCANTILE JACK An old Red Duster flying from an old "eighthundred" tramp, Just like a rag a woman takes to wipe an oily lamp; A tag of has-been bunting, a soot-stained splash of pride, But somehow full of glory as it streamed above the tide. An old Red Duster tugging at its halyards in the stern, Above the boiling lather of the screw's incessant turn, With God's white stars above it, which blinked as tho' afraid, Hummed friendly to a grimy hand a song of British trade: Up and down the ocean, Shifting tons of merchandise, Sometimes there's a racket, But nothing ever stopped us yet The vastness of the ocean, and the wonder of the sky, No meaning had for Grimy as the waves went flopping by. The tramp steamed onward, outward, but his thoughts they didn't roam From his wife and brood of youngsters tucked up comfy in his home; Then the old Red Duster clattered through the darkness and the breeze: "Your wife won't do no shopping if I'm wiped from off the seas!" And Grimy felt a baby hand creep warmly in his own, And "Fritz be blowed!," he bellowed out, "We'll cross the Danger Zone!" "Carry on's" the order, "Carry on's" the job, Full of stuff from anywhere, Fetched for Britain's mob. Mother cutting bread and scraps, MERCANTILE JACK 61 Gather round the table, How's my dear old pal? Nothing ever stopped us yet Now, say a prayer, Britannia, for him who's on the sea To fetch you wool and cotton, to bring you corn and tea; There's not a shop you enter in, but oughtn't now to mean A shrine at which to thank Lord God for your Mercantile Marine. They're losing lots of tonnage, and they're losing more than kits, But night and day they're on the sea in spite of Pirate Fritz, The best man holds the ocean, the best man, white |