The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,

There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,

Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish

crews,

Gold doubloons and double moidores, louis d'ors and portagues,

Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil, Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil; Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze, Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.

We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,

Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever

see,

And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we

steers,

Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in

my ears.

I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone

their ways

Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays, And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair, And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.

It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind, And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.

And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dip

ping red,

And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.

I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and go To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,

And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years

By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears. — John Masefield

THE TARRY BUCCANEER

I'm going to be a pirate with a bright brass pivot-gun,
And an island in the Spanish Main beyond the setting sun,
And a silver flagon full of red wine to drink when work is
done,

Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.

With a sandy creek to careen in, and a pig-tailed Spanish

mate,

And under my main-hatches a sparkling merry freight
Of doubloons and double moidores and pieces of eight,

Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.

With a taste for Spanish wine-shops and for spending my doubloons,

And a crew of swart mulattoes and black-eyed octoroons, And a thoughtful way with mutineers of making them

maroons,

Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.

With a sash of crimson velvet and a diamond-hilted sword, And a silver whistle about my neck secured to a golden cord, And a habit of taking captives and walking them along a board,

Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.

With a spy-glass tucked beneath my arm and a cocked hat cocked askew,

And a long low rakish schooner a-cutting of the waves in two, And a flag of skull and cross-bones the wickedest that ever

flew,

Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer. - John Masefield

TEWKESBURY ROAD

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,

Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;

Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,

Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink

Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;

Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink

When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,

Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth

At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.

- John Masefield

A WANDERER'S SONG

A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limits of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To windy tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'll be going, going, until I meet the tide.

And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.

Oh I'm tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels. -John Masefield

ROADWAYS

One road leads to London,
One road runs to Wales,
My road leads me seawards
To the white dipping sails.

One road leads to the river,
As it goes singing slow;
My road leads to shipping,
Where the bronzed sailors go.

Leads me, lures me, calls me
To salt green tossing sea;
A road without earth's road-dust
Is the right road for me.

A wet road heaving, shining,
And wild with seagulls' cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing
The salt spray in my eyes.

My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north;
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads me forth

To add more miles to the tally
Of grey miles left behind,

In quest of that one beauty
God put me here to find.

- John Masefield