"Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily! Aye, as you say, sir, they're little ones still; One long reach should open it readily, Round by St. Helens and under the hill. "The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise, Their mothers to them—and to us it's our wives. I've sailed forty years, and-By God it's upon us! Down royals, down top'sles, down, down, for your lives!" A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it, It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness; Give help to the mothers who need it to-day! Give help to the women who wait by the water, Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight. Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter, "Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.' Sir A. Conan Doyle. The Leadsman's Song OR England, when with favouring gale, The high blue western lands appeared, And to the pilot cheerly sang And bearing up to gain the port, And as the much-loved shore we near, Now to her berth the ship draws nigh, Proclaim-" All's well". Anon. Caller Herrin' HA 'LL buy caller herrin'? W They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; New drawn frae the Forth. When ye were sleeping on your pillows, Dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they face the billows, Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; New drawn frae the Forth. An' when the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Toss their heads and screw their faces; Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth. Noo, neighbour wives, come, tent my tellin', At a word be aye your dealin'— Truth will stand when a' things failin'; Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth. Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? They're no brought here without brave darin', Ye little ken their worth. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? O ye may call them vulgar farin'; Caller herrin', caller herrin'. Lady Nairne. The Poor Fisherman HUS by himself compelled to live each day, The water only, when the tides were high, Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way, Crabbe. The Three Fishers HREE fishers went sailing out into the West, And the children stood watching them out For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse-tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town. For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley. |