Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:

The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung:
She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.

"Let go, and haul!" "Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on the shingly shore.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea;

The first mate clamors, " Belay, there, all!”
And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow,

In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry.

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER

132. My Old Kentucky Home,

THE

1826-1864

HE sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;

The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day.

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy and bright;

By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:-
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady,

O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door.

The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
where all was delight;

With sorrow,
The time has come when the darkeys have to part:

Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days, and the trouble all will end,

In the field where the sugar-canes grow.
A few more days for to tote the weary load, –
No matter, 'twill never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road:-
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady,

O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky home, far away.

133.

WA

Old Folks at Home

AY down upon de Swanee Ribber,
Far, far away,

Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,
Dere's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation
Sadly I roam,

Still longing for de old plantation,

And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Eberywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered
When I was young,

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder
Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes,
One dat I love,

Still sadly to my memory rushes,

No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming

All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming,
Down in my good old home?

134.

All de world am sad and dreary,
Eberywhere I roam,

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

Massa's in de Cold Ground

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing

De darkeys' mournful song,

While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a-creeping,

O'er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,

Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.

Down in de corn-field

Hear dat mournful sound:

All de darkeys am a-weeping,-
Massa's in de cold, cold ground.

When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,

'Twas hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.

Now de orange tree am blooming

On de sandy shore,

Now de summer days am coming,

Massa nebber calls no more.

Massa make de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind;

Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before to-morrow,
Cayse de tear-drop flow;

I try to drive away my sorrow,
Pickin' on de old banjo.

Down in de corn-field

Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,
Massa's in de cold, cold ground.

135.

I

LUCY LARCOM

A Strip of Blue

Do not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine, -

The orchard and the mowing-fields,
The lawns and gardens fine.
The winds my tax-collectors are,
They bring me tithes divine,
Wild scents and subtle essences,
A tribute rare and free;
And, more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,
A little strip of sea.

1826-1893