[Is it naught to you that hear and pa.s.s me by?]

But the word--the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.

The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre-- [O the blue below the little fisher-huts!]

That the Stealer stooping beach ward filled with fire, Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!

By the wisdom of the centuries I speak-- To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth-- I, the joy of life unquestioned--I, the Greek-- I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

With my "_Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!_"

[What d'ye lack, my n.o.ble masters? What d'ye lack?]

So I draw the world together link by link: Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

"THE LINER SHE'S A LADY."

The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds-- The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs; But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun', They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

_Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old-- Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!_

The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, An' if she meets an accident they call it sore disgrace: The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by, But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die.

The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man!

They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can.

The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!

'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride.

The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade.

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, but if we wasn't 'ere, 'E wouldn't have to fight at all for 'ome an' friends so dear.

_'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old-- 'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!_

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT.

The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea, An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free-- An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one down but me.

I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there, For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care, An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.

I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod, For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker 'n peas in a pod, An' more pens broke at every roll--so I made a Contract with G.o.d.

An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same, If He got me to port alive I would exalt His name, An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.

He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea, For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me-- An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.

But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all, An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall, An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seamen's Hospital.

An' I spoke to G.o.d of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer: "I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear.

So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there.

"For human life is chancy at any kind of trade, But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid; So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said.

"They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow, They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so; For now those boats are more like h.e.l.l than anything else I know."

I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get, An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet, But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set.

I have been smit an' bruised, as warned would be the case, An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says; But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace.

An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm, An' I use no knife nor pistol an' I never take no harm, For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.

An' I sign for four pound ten a month and save the money clear, An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer; An' I believe in Almighty G.o.d an' I preach His Gospel here.

The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong, For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong-- _Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the compet.i.tion so strong!_

ANCHOR SONG.

(_From Many Inventions_).

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!

Over, s.n.a.t.c.h her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.

Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full-- Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!

Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love-- Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee; For the wind has come to say: "You must take me while you may, If you'd go to Mother Carey, (Walk her down to Mother Carey!) Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o' that!

Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.

Port--port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath her foot, And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!

Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again-- Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.

And it's time to clear and quit When the hawser grips the bitt, So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

Heh! Tally on! Aft and walk away with her!

Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!

Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.

Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!

Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us, Choking down our voices as we s.n.a.t.c.h the gaskets free.

And it's blowing up for night, And she's dropping Light on Light, And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea.

Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.

Sick she is and harbour-sick--O sick to clear the land!