Songs of the Sea and Lays of the Land. Charles Godfrey Leland
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 BIRD CREW
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.
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