Volume Iii Part 68 (1/2)

Blue gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead-- Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor, Rugged of front and form; A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from We know, and there's nothing more!

But perhaps his mother is waiting In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying, Reason drifting awreck, ”'Tis my watch.” he would mutter, ”I must go upon deck!”

Aye, on deck, by the foremast!

But watch and lookout are done; The Union Jack laid o'er him, How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft; Let the roll of the ocean Cradle our giant craft; Gather around the grating, Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer!

Let every foot be quiet, Every head be bare-- The soft trade-wind is lifting A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service, (A little spray on his cheeks) The grand old words of burial, And the trust a true heart seeks:-- ”We therefore commit his body To the deep”--and, as he speaks,

Launched from the weather railing, Swift as the eye can mark, The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas coffin; But, silence to doubt and dole:-- There's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor aweary soul.

Free the fettered engine, Speed the tireless shaft, Loose to'gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead-- Every man to his duty, We have buried our dead!

Henry Howard Brownell [1820-1872]

TOM BOWLING

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, The word to ”pipe all hands.”

Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

MESSMATES