Must we sing for evermore On the windless, gla.s.sy floor?

Take back your golden fiddles and we'll beat to open sea!"

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him, And 'stablished his borders unto all eternity, That such as have no pleasure For to praise the Lord by measure, They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

_Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it, Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free; And the ships shall go abroad To the glory of the Lord Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!_

THE MERCHANTMEN.

King Solomon drew merchantmen, Because of his desire For peac.o.c.ks, apes, and ivory, From Tarshish unto Tyre: With cedars out of Lebanon Which Hiram rafted down, But we be only sailormen That use in London town.

_Coastwise--cross-seas--round the world and back again-- Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits-- Plain-sail--storm-sail--lay your board and tack again-- And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!_

We bring no store of ingots, Of spice or precious stones, But that we have we gathered With sweat and aching bones: In flame beneath the tropics, In frost upon the floe, And jeopardy of every wind That does between them go.

And some we got by purchase, And some we had by trade, And some we found by courtesy Of pike and carronade, At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings, For charity to keep, And light the rolling homeward-bound That rode a foot too deep.

By sport of bitter weather We're walty, strained, and scarred From the kentledge on the kelson To the slings upon the yard.

Six oceans had their will of us To carry all away-- Our galley 's in the Baltic, And our boom 's in Mossel Bay!

We've floundered off the Texel, Awash with sodden deals, We've slipped from Valparaiso With the Norther at our heels: We've ratched beyond the Crossets That tusk the Southern Pole, And dipped our gunnels under To the dread Agulhas roll.

Beyond all outer charting We sailed where none have sailed, And saw the land-lights burning On islands none have hailed; Our hair stood up for wonder, But, when the night was done, There danced the deep to windward Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

Strange consorts rode beside us And brought us evil luck; The witch-fire climbed our channels, And danced on vane and truck: Till, through the red tornado, That lashed us nigh to blind, We saw The Dutchman plunging, Full canvas, head to wind!

We've heard the Midnight Leadsman That calls the black deep down-- Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer, The Thing that may not drown.

On frozen bunt and gasket The sleet-cloud drave her hosts, When, manned by more than signed with us, We pa.s.sed the Isle o' Ghosts!

And north, amid the hummocks, A biscuit-toss below, We met the silent shallop That frighted whalers know; For, down a cruel ice-lane, That opened as he sped, We saw dead Henry Hudson Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt G.o.d's waters with us Beneath the roaring skies, So walked His signs and marvels All naked to our eyes: But we were heading homeward With trade to lose or make-- Good Lord, they slipped behind us In the tailing of our wake!

Let go, let go the anchors; Now shamed at heart are we To bring so poor a cargo home That had for gift the sea!

Let go the great bow-anchors-- Ah, fools were we and blind-- The worst we baled with utter toil, The best we left behind!

_Coastwise--cross-seas--round the world and back again, Whither the flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down: Plain-sail--storm-sail--lay your board and tack again-- And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!_

MCANDREWS' HYMN.

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An', taught by time, I tak' it so--exceptin' always Steam.

From coupler-f.l.a.n.g.e to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O G.o.d-- Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.

John Calvin might ha' forged the same--enorrmous, certain, slow-- Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame--_my_ "Inst.i.tutio."

I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; I'll stand the middle watch up here--alone wi' G.o.d an' these My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.

Slam-bang too much--they knock a wee--the crosshead-gibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse....

Fine, clear an' dark--a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night!

His wife's at Plymouth.... Seventy--One--Two--Three since he began-- Three turns for Mistress Ferguson ... an' who's to blame the man?

There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow, Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.

(The year the _Sarah Sands_ was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws--fra' Govan to Parkhead!) Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say: "Good morrn, McAndrews! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?"

Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair To drink Madeira wi' three Earls--the auld Fleet Engineer, That started as a boiler-whelp--when steam and he were low.

I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow.

Ten pound was all the pressure then--Eh! Eh!--a man wad drive; An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder' fifty-five!

We're creepin' on wi' each new rig--less weight an' larger power: There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour!

Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man?

The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea: Four time the span from earth to moon.... How far, O Lord, from Thee?

That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon?

It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.

Three feet were on the stokehold floor--just slappin' to an' fro-- An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.

Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns--deep in my soul an' black, An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.

The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas, Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed.... Forgie's our trespa.s.ses.

Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze, The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays; Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong-- Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!

Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode-- Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Redd.i.c.k an' Grant Road!

An' waur than all--my crownin' sin--rank blasphemy an' wild.

I was not four and twenty then--Ye wadna' judge a child?

I'd seen the Tropics first that run--new fruit, new smells, new air-- How could I tell--blind-fou wi' sun--the Deil was lurkin' there?

By day like playhouse-scenes the sh.o.r.e slid past our sleepy eyes; By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies, In port (we used no cargo-steam) I'd daunder down the streets-- An ijjit grinnin' in a dream--for sh.e.l.ls an' parrakeets, An' walkin'-sticks o' carved bamboo an' blowfish stuffed an' dried-- Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Chief put overside.

Till, off Sumbawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca'

Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom: "McAndrews, come awa'!"

Firm, clear an' low--no haste, no hate--the ghostly whisper went, Just statin' eevidential facts beyon' all argument: "Your mither's G.o.d's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel', Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' h.e.l.l.

They mak' him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt, A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt, Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red-hot rod, But come wi' Us" (Now, who were _They_?) "an' know the Leevin' G.o.d, That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, But swells the ripenin' cocoanuts an' ripes the woman's breast."

An' there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice-- For me, six months o' twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.

'Twas on me like a thunderclap--it racked me through an' through-- Temptation past the show o' speech, unnamable an' new-- The Sin against the Holy Ghost?... An' under all, our screw.

That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin' swell, Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell.

Third on the _Mary Gloster_ then, and first that night in h.e.l.l!

Yet was Thy hand beneath my head: about my feet Thy care-- Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair, But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!

We dared na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire, An' I was drowzin' on the hatch--sick--sick wi' doubt an' tire: "_Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!_"

Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs--again, an' once again, When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin'-chain; An' by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain.

Light on the engine-room--no more--clear as our carbons burn.

I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.

Obsairve! Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard-- Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord, But--average fifteen hunder' souls safe-borne fra' port to port-- I _am_ o' service to my kind. Ye wadna' blame the thought?

Maybe they steam from grace to wrath--to sin by folly led,-- It isna mine to judge their path--their lives are on my head.

Mine at the last--when all is done it all comes back to me, The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.

We'll tak' one stretch--three weeks an' odd by any road ye steer-- Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington--ye need an engineer.

Fail there--ye've time to weld your shaft--ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke, Or make Kerguelen under sail--three jiggers burned wi' smoke!

An' home again, the Rio run: it's no child's play to go Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow-- The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' G.o.d, goes by the big South drift.

(Hail, snow an' ice that praise the Lord: I've met them at their work, An' wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.) Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.

Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear-- The pa.s.sengers, wi' gloves an' canes--an' this is what I'll hear: "Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender's comin' now."

While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.

They've words for everyone but me--shake hands wi' half the crew, Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.