Salt-Water Ballads. John 1878-1967 Masefield

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СКАЧАТЬ ’N’ all the night till the grey o’ the dawn the dead ’un has to swim

       With a blue ’n’ beastly Will o’ the Wisp a-burnin’ over him,

       With a herring, maybe, a-scoffin’ a toe or a shark a-chewin’ a limb.

      ‘ ’N’ all the night the shiverin’ corp it has to swim the sea,

       With its shudderin’ soul inside the throat (where a soul’s no right to be),

       Till the sky’s grey ’n’ the dawn’s clear, ’n’ then the sperrit’s free.

      ‘Now Joe was a man was right as rain. I’m sort of sore for Joe,

       ’N’ if we bury him durin’ the day, his soul can take ’n’ go;

       So we’ll dump his corp when the bell strikes ’n’ we can get below.

      ‘I’d fairly hate for him to swim in a blue ’n’ beastly light,

       With his shudderin’ soul inside of him a-feelin’ the fishes bite,

       So over he goes at noon, say I, ’n’ he shall sleep to-night.’

BILL

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      He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies,

       With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes:

       ‘Bill, he’s dead,’ was all they said; ‘he’s dead, ’n’ there he lies.’

      The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail:

       ‘Just lash him up wi’ some holystone in a clout o’ rotten sail,

       ’N’, rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye’re slower’n a bloody snail!’

      When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel,

       We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel.

       ‘It’s rough about Bill,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘we’ll have to stand his wheel.’

FEVER SHIP

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      There’ll be no weepin’ gells ashore when our ship sails, Nor no crews cheerin’ us, standin’ at the rails, ’N’ no Blue Peter a-foul the royal stay, For we’ve the Yellow Fever—Harry died to-day.— It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

      ’N’ Dick has got the fever-shakes, ’n’ look what I was told

       (I went to get a sack for him to keep him from the cold):

       ‘Sir, can I have a sack?’ I says, ‘for Dick ’e’s fit to die.’

       ‘Oh, sack be shot!’ the skipper says, ‘jest let the rotter lie!’—

       It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

      It’s a cruel port is Santos, and a hungry land,

       With rows o’ graves already dug in yonder strip of sand,

       ’N’ Dick is hollerin’ up the hatch, ’e says ’e’s goin’ blue,

       His pore teeth are chattering, ’n’ what’s a man to do?—

       It’s cruel when a fo’c’s’le gets the fever!

FEVER-CHILLS

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