In the North End of Boston, long ago;
Although ’tis yet within my memory;
There were of gabled houses many a row,
With overhanging storeys two or three,
And many with half-doors over whose end
Leaning upon her elbows, the good-wife
At eventide conversed with many a friend
Of all the little chances of their life;
Small ripples in a stream which ran full slow
In the North End of Boston, long ago.
And ’mid these houses was a Hostelrie
Frequented by the people of the sea,
Known as the Boy and Barrel, from its sign:
A jolly urchin on a cask of wine
Bearing the words which puzzled every eye—
Orbus In Tactu Mainet[1] Heaven knows why.
Even there a bit of Latin made a show,
In the North End of Boston—long ago.
And many a sailor, when his cruise was o’er,
Bore straight for it soon as he touched the shore:
In many a stormy night upon the sea
He’d thought upon the Boy—and of the spree
He’d have when there, and let all trouble go,
In the North End of Boston, long ago.
There, like their vessels in a friendly port,
Met many mariners of every kind,
Spinning strange yarns of many a varied sort,
Well sheltered from the ocean and the wind;
In a long low dark room they lounged at ease;
Strange men there were from many a distant land,
And there above the high old chimney-piece
Were curiosities from many a strand,
Which often made strange tales and memories flow
In the North End of Boston, long ago.
And there I often sat to hear those tales,
From men who’d passed through storm and fight and fire,
Of mighty icebergs and stupendous whales,
Of shipwrecked crews and of adventures dire,
Until the thought came to me on a time,
While I was listening to that merry throng,
That I would write their stories out in rhyme,
And weave into it many a sailor’s song,
That men might something of the legends know
Of the North End of Boston, long ago.
First it was said that Captain Kidd in truth
Had revelled in that tavern with his crew,
And there it was he lost the Golden Tooth
Which brought him treasure, and the gossips knew
Moll Pitcher dwelt there in the days of yore,
And Peter Rugg had stopped before the door:
Tom Walker there did with the Devil go
In the North End of Boston, long ago.
Nor had I long to wait, for at the word
Some one observed that he had seen in Spain
A captain hung—which Abner Chapin heard
And said, “I too upon the Spanish Main
Met with a man well known unto us all,
Who nearly hung a Captain General.”
He told the tale and I did rhyme it so;
In the North End of Boston, long ago.
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[1]
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See Appendix. |
There was a Captain General who ruled in Vera Cruz,
And what we used to hear of him was always evil news;
He was a pirate on the sea—a robber on the shore:
The Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
There was a Yankee skipper who round about did roam,
His name was Stephen Folger and Nantucket was his home,
And having gone to Vera Cruz he had been skinned full sore
By the Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
But having got away alive, though all his cash was gone,
He said, “If there is Vengeance, I will surely try it on!
And I do wish I may be damned if I don’t clear the score
With Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador!”
He shipped a crew of seventy men—well-arméd men were they,
And sixty of them in the hold he darkly stowed away,
And sailing back to Vera Cruz was sighted from the shore,
By the Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
With twenty-five soldados he came on board so pleased
And said: “Maldito Yankee—again your ship is seized.
How many sailors have you got?” Said Folger, “Ten—no more,”
To the Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
“But come into my cabin and take a glass of wine,
I do suppose as usual, I’ll have to pay a fine;
I have got some old Madeira and we’ll talk the matter o’er—
My Capitan Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.”
And as over that Madeira the Captain General boozed,
It seemed to him as if his head was getting quite confused,
For it happened that some morphine had travelled from “the store”
To the glass of Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
“What is it makes the vessel roll? What sounds are these I hear?
It seems as if the rising waves were beating on my ear!”
“Oh it is the breaking of the surf—just that and nothing more,
My Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador!”
The Governor was in a sleep which muddled all his brains,
The seventy men had got his gang and put them all in chains,
And when he woke the following day he could not see the shore,
For he was out on the blue water—the Don San Salvador.
“Now do you see that yard-arm—and understand the thing?”
Said Captain Folger, “For all from that yard-arm you shall swing,
Or forty thousand dollars you must pay me from your store,
My Captain Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.”
The Capitano took a pen—the order he did sign,
“O Señor Yankee!—but you charge amazing high for wine!”
But ’twas not till the draft was paid they let him go ashore,
El Señor Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
The greatest sharp some day will find another sharper wit,
It always makes the devil laugh to see a biter bit;
It takes two Spaniards any day to come a Yankee o’er:
Even two like Don Alonzo Estabán San Salvador.
And when this tale was told, another man
Cried out, “I’ll swear ’tis true as true can be,
Unto his health we’ll have all round a can!
For Captain Folger is well known to me.
Now I will sing ‘first lines’ of ‘Uncle Sam,’
And he who can shall add at once a second,
I’ll call you one by one—now here I am,
And he who balks shall be the loser reckoned,
And pay for drinks all round”—
“All right,” they roared,
“Now then begin, for we are all on board!”
When there’s rain and shine together,
Chorus. Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam is in the weather:
Chorus. Yo heave ho!
When the sun shines through a fog,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Samuel drinks his grog:
Yo heave ho!
When the blue sky shows in pieces,
Yo heave ho!
Those are Uncle Samuel’s breeches:
Yo heave ho!
When a cloud is low and flat,
Yo heave ho!
That is Uncle Samuel’s hat:
Yo heave ho!
When the wind is loud and bad,
Yo heave ho!
Then Old Sam is getting mad:
Yo heave ho!
When the wind begins to bellow,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam is in the cellar:
Yo heave ho!
When the sky is clean and red,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam is gone to bed:
Yo heave ho!
When you hear the wind a-roaring,
Yo heave ho!
That is Uncle Sam a-snoring:
Yo heave ho!
When you see the lightning spooning,
Yo heave ho!
Then old Uncle Sam’s harpooning:
Yo heave ho!
When you hear the wind a-barking,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam has gone a-sharking:
Yo heave ho!
When you see a santo-corpus,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam is arter a porpus:
Yo heave ho!
When the water gabbles too much,
Yo heave ho!
Uncle Sam is talking Dutch:
Yo heave ho!
When the sea hawk’s scream is heard,
Yo heave ho!
He wants to know if there’s Dutch on board:
Yo heave ho!
When the wind’s before the rain,
Yo heave ho!
Soon you can make sail again:
Yo heave ho!
“Belay that song I say—’tis gettin’ weary:”
Cried out a voice, “Let’s change to Mother Carey!”
With the wind old Mother Carey,
Yo ho oh!
Churns the sea to make her dairy:
Yo ho oh!
When you see a storm a-brewin’,
Yo ho oh!
That is Mother Carey’s doin’:
Yo ho oh!
When you see Mother Carey’s chickens,
Yo ho oh!
Then look out to catch the dickens!
Yo ho oh!
When you hear the icebergs rattle,
Yo ho oh!
Those are Mother Carey’s cattle:
Yo ho oh!
When you see them split—a-halving,
Yo ho oh!
Then Mother Carey’s cows are calving:
Yo ho oh!
When you see a flying fish,
Yo ho oh!
Lose no time but make your wish:
Yo ho oh!
Irish pennons when they’re flying,
Yo ho oh!
Set old Mother Carey crying:
Yo ho oh!
When the sea-gulls dip for slush,
Yo ho oh!
Mother Carey stirs the mush:
Yo ho oh!
When one sea-gull follows you,
Yo ho oh!
Mother Carey soon makes it two:
Yo ho oh!
When the sea-gulls fly by two,
Yo ho oh!
Soon good luck will come to you:
Yo ho oh!
When the sea-gulls fly by threes,
Yo ho oh!
Soon you’ll have a spanking breeze:
Yo ho oh!
If seven follow you into port,
Yo ho oh!
There the sailors’ll have good sport:
Yo ho oh!
When a rope trails in the water,
Yo ho oh!
That is Mother Carey’s garter:
Yo ho oh!
When the clouds are red as roses,
Yo ho oh!
Those are Mother Carey’s posies:
Yo ho oh!
If you want to win your Mary,
Yo ho oh!
Throw out a biscuit to Mother Carey:
Yo ho oh!
And so they would have chantyd all night long,
But some one broke it with another song.
The Albatross
Is the captain and boss,
Haul away boys, haul away!
The sea-gull queers
Are the officeers,
Haul away boys, haul away!
And the Carey chickens as I guess
Is every one an A.B.S.,
Haul away boys, haul away!
“I’ve heard,” said Chapin, “many folk agree,
Those birds are souls of sailors lost at sea,
And often one around the vessel flies
To give us warning ere the storms arise.”
“Talkin’ of spirits in the vasty deep,”
Said Ezra Bullard, late of Marblehead,
“There’s one at least who never goes to sleep,
And mighty little good of him is said;
His special dispensation is to watch
The bottom of the ocean, and to see
It don’t fall out—for if it did we catch
The very direst kind of misery,
For all the water runnin’ through the hole
Would leave it dry as you can understand,
And from the Arctic to the ’tother pole,
’Twould be one thunderin’ lot of empty land.”
And thereupon in his south-wester tones
He let us have the song of Davy Jones.
Down in the sea among sand and stones,
There lives the old fellow called Davy Jones.
When storms come up he sighs and groans,
And that is the singing of Davy Jones.
His chest is full of dead men’s bones,
And that is the locker of Davy Jones.
Davy is Welsh you may hear by his tones,
For a regular Welsher is Davy Jones.
Whenever a fish gets drowned, he moans,
So tender-hearted is Davy Jones.
Thousands of ships the old man owns,
But none go a-sailing for Davy Jones.
“Well—since you talk o’ the bottom of the sea,”
Said Enoch Doolittle of Salem town,
“I know a yarn that beats you full and free,
Because, d’ye know, it takes you deeper down,
And if you’re taken down—of course you’re beat.”
“That’s so,” cried all, “so now your yarn repeat!”
“All right,” quoth Doolittle, “I’ll serve it hot,
Because, d’ye see, it’s called The Devil’s Pot.
But ’fore I dive into the salty brine,
Give me a gill of white New England wine!
Take one all round to benefit the pub.
Now for the bottom of the pickle tub.”
There’s a place where you see the Atlantic heave
Like water boiling hot;
Where you come with grief and with joy you leave,
And they call it the Devil’s Pot.
Now there was a witch in the good old time,
And she had such power, they say,
Through rocks or stones or sand or lime,
She could always make her way.
One night on a broom she went with a whirr;
The devil he saw her fly,
And the devil he fell in love with her
As she went sailing by.
She flew like the devil to scape away,
And the devil so did he,
And she jumped from her broom without delay
And she dived to the bottom of the sea.
And she bored a hole when she got down,
And round and round she twirled,
And closed it behind as she went on,
Till she went straight through the world.
And the devil he dived in the water deep,
And he made it boil like pitch
As he roared and raved with many a leap,
But he never could find the witch.
And still he stirs it by night and day,
And seeks and finds her not;
And that is the reason, the sailors say,
Why it’s called the Devil’s Pot.
“They say that there are witches everywhere,”
Said Jones of Chesapeake, “a livin’ free;
Some in the rocks, some flyin’ in the air,
And some, in course, like fishes in the sea.
I’ve often heard strange voices in the night—
They wan’t no birds I’ll swer, nor any sitch—
One called me once by name; it gim’me fright—
And that I’m sartin was a water-witch.
One can’t in nat’ral wise account for that,
All you can call it is a Mr. E——
But there are witches, I will bet a hat;
And so I’ll sing the song of One, Two, Three,
Fust drinkin’ all your healths,”—no more he said,
But in a good round voice went straight ahead:
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[2]
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The Devil’s Pot is a place on the North Atlantic route where, according to sailors, there is always bad weather. |
I saw three witches as the wind blew cold
In a red light to the lee;
Bold they were and over-bold
As they sailed over the sea;
Calling for One, Two, Three!
Calling for One, Two, Three!
And I think I can hear
It a-ringing in my ear,
A-calling for the One, Two, Three.
And clouds came over the sky,
And the wind it blew hard and free,
And the waves grew bold and over-bold
As we sailed over the sea;
Howling for One, Two, Three!