On the Old Coast Tub
Blast from the winter. Wrack-wood and splinter
Adrift in the smother of roaring lee shore:
And a blunt-nosed old coaster; some ancient sea-wagon,
Sweeps in from the fog no more—no more,
Rolls in from the sea no more.
Bricks make her load and New York her destin-
ation.
(Dern yer hide, ye snoozer, keep a-pumping there, I say!)
Bricks for a cargo and she leaks like thundera-
tion,
And the gulls a-trailin’ after like the buzzards sniffin’ prey!
Pump away!
And ev’ry brick a-soakin’ in her innards growls and grates;
She hesitates—she balks and waits,
And holy hawse-pipe, how she hates
To leave Penobscot Bay!
Pounce! On her bows leap the combers like a tiger-cat,
(Lift ’er on the handle, there, you loafer, pump away!)
Lurch! Reels her gait, and her sloshin’ scup-
pers hiccup at
The sight of drunken breakers fightin’ past
’er up the bay.
Pump, I say!
Oh, give her all the rotten sail her leary masts will lug.
Ka-chig, ka-chug; her ugly mug
Rolls orkord as a driftin’ jug,
And so we slosh away.
Grub to last a week, a quadrant and an alma-
nick;
(Wag ’er there, you rascal, wag ’er lively there, I say!)
Rotten are her sails and her hold a-roar with shiftin’ brick,
—Ain’t we up ag’inst it if a norther comes our way?
Pump, I say!
Stagger down, ye bloated drunkard, wheel and take the starboard tack!
Ka-slup, ka-smack, now work ’er back,
Jest hear that old black canvas crack.
Ho! Davy Jones, hooray!
Black cordage tangled, dead features mangled,
Adrift in the smother of roaring lee shore.
And a blunt-nosed old coaster; some broad-bellied wagon
Sweeps in from the sea no more
—Rolls in from the sea no more,
—no more.