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The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike,
The bos'n brained with a marlinspike
And Cookey's throat was marked belike
It had been gripped

By fingers ten;

And there they lay,

All good dead men,

Like break-o'-day in a boozing-ken

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of a whole ship's list
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

Dead and be-damned and the rest gone whist!-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
The skipper lay with his nob in gore

Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore
And the scullion he was stabbed times four.
And there they lay

And the soggy skies

Dripped all day long

In up-staring eyes

At murk sunset and at foul sunrise
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Ten of the crew had the Murder mark-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead,
Or a yawing hole in a battered head

And the scuppers glut with a rotting red.
And there they lay

Aye, damn my eyes!

All lookouts clapped
On paradise

All souls bound just contrariwise
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em good and true
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Every man jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew -
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold,
With a ton of plate in the middle hold,
And the cabins riot of stuff untold.

And they lay there

That had took the plum,

With sightless glare

And their lips struck dumb,

While we shared all by the rule of thumb
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

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More was seen through the sternlight screen-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been!
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,

With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot
And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.

Or was she wench

Or some shuddering maid

?

That dared the knife

And that took the blade!

By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest -
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

We wrapped 'em all in a mains'l tight,
With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight,
And we heaved 'em over and out of sight
With a yo-heave-ho!

And a fare-you-well!

And a sullen plunge

In the sullen swell

Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Young E. Allison

THE LAST BUCCANEER

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free,
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as

stone,

Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like

gold,

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the
shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were

we.

All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms

at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going - I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off

there:

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.
-Charles Kingsley

BOATS AT NIGHT

How lovely is the sound of oars at night
And unknown voices, borne through windless air,
From shadowy vessels floating out of sight
Beyond the harbor lantern's broken glare

To those piled rocks that make on the dark wave
Only a darker stain. The splashing oars
Slide softly on as in an echoing cave
And with the whisper of the unseen shores
Mingle their music, till the bell of night
Murmurs reverberations low and deep

That droop towards the land in swooning flight
Like whispers from the lazy lips of sleep.
The oars grow faint. Below the cloud-dim hill
The shadows fade, and now the bay is still.

Edward Shanks

SEA-GULLS

Where the dark green hollows lift
Into crests of snow,

Wheeling, flashing, floating by,

White against the stormy sky,

With exultant call and cry

Swift the sea-gulls go.

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