The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 30

I.

Around the rocky headlands, far and near, The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoa.r.s.e, and drear.

Within this distant valley, with rapt ear, I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung, Or some gray G.o.d, as when the world was young, Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear.

Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock Broke the long silence of eternity, And echoed from the summits where G.o.d wrought, Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.

II.

The sea is never quiet: east and west The nations hear it, like the voice of fate; Within vast sh.o.r.es its strife makes desolate, Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast Return, as eagles screaming to their nest.

Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait While old earth crumbles to eternal rest, Or some h.o.a.r monster calling to his mate?

O ye, that hear it moan about the sh.o.r.e, Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown; And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore 'Twill murmur on its craggy sh.o.r.es among, Singing of G.o.ds and nations overthrown.

W.P. FOSTER.

At Gibraltar.

I.

England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow,-- The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.

Still surging dark against the Christian bound Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face; England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!

I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa!

II.

Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas Between the East and West, that G.o.d has built; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, While run thy armies true with His decrees.

Law, justice, liberty,--great gifts are these; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease.

Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light American I am; would wars were done!

Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,-- Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G.E. WOODBERRY.

Jerry an' Me.

No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.

They told him--Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall-- They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him, Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed.

But he shall never know--my man-- The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a st.i.tch or fill A needleful o' thread.

G.o.d pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an'--me.

H. RICH.

The Gravedigger.

Oh, the shambling sea is a s.e.xton old, And well his work is done; With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest sh.o.r.e; And G.o.d, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to sh.o.r.e,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to sh.o.r.e.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they?

In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far As the ships of long ago; And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the s.e.xton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly note of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest sh.o.r.e; And G.o.d, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to sh.o.r.e,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to sh.o.r.e.

B. CARMAN.

The Absence of Little Wesley.

HOOSIER DIALECT.