Part 85

I've been ploughin' down in Devonshire, My folks would have me stay, Where the wheat grows on th' dune side, Where th' scamperin' rabbits play. But th' smells come from th' ocean, An' th' twitterin' swallows wheel, As th' little sails bob landwards, To th' scurryin' sea-gulls' squeal.

Oh, it's gold, gold, gold, That's temptin' me from here. An' it's rum, rum, rum, That makes me know no fear. When th' man-o-war is growlin', As her for'ard swivels roar, As th' decks are black with wounded, An' are runnin' red with gore.

I've been goin' to church o' Sundays, An' th' Parson sure can talk, He's been pleadin' for my soul, Sir, In Paradise to walk. An' I kind o' have th' shivers, Come creepin' down my spine, When th' choir breaks into music, While th' organ beats th' time.

But it's gold, gold, gold, That glitters in my eye, An' it's rum, rum, rum, That makes me cheat an' lie, When th' slaver's in th' doldrums, Th' fleet is closin' round, An' th' Captain calls out, furious, "Now, run th' hound aground!"

No matter how I farm, Sir, No matter how I hoe, Th' breezes from th' blue, Sir, Just kind uv make me glow. When th' clipper ships are racin', An' their bellyin' sails go past, I just leave my team an' swear, Sir, I'll ship before th' mast.

For it's gold, gold, gold, That makes me shiver, like, An' it's rum, rum, rum, That makes me cut an' strike, When th' boarders creep across th' rail, Their soljers all in line, An' their pistols spittin' lead, Sir, Like er bloomin' steam engine.

So I'll kiss my plough good-bye, Sir, I'll throw my scythe away, An' I'm goin' to th' dock, Sir, Where th' ships are side th' quay. Shake out th' skull an' cross-bones, Take out th' signs of Marque, An' let's cut loose an' forage, In a rakish ten-gun barque.

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt, when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck, when the great shells roar and screech-- And never they fear; when the foe is near, to practice what they preach: But, off with your hat, and three times three, for the war-ship's true-blue sons, The men who batter the foe--my Boys--the men behind the guns.

Oh, light and merry of heart are they, when they swing into port, once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that these blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street, Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce chap to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys,--the lads who serve the guns.

But, say not a word, till the shot is heard, that tells of the peace-blood's ebb, Till the long, low roar grows more and more, from the ships of the "Yank" and "Reb." Till over the deep the tempests sweep, of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair, in the throes of a living Hell: Then, down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid-day suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns.

--ROONEY (Adapted).

RAPHAEL SEMMES

DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE

(1809-1877)

"Sit apart, write; let them hear or let them forbear; the written word abides, until, slowly and unexpectedly, and in widely sundered places, it has created its own church."--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

RAPHAEL SEMMES

DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE

(1809-1877)

"We started from Ole England fer to cripple up our foes, We started from Ole England fer to strike some rapid blows, So we coasted to the Azores where we ran a packet down, And then to the Bermudas, where we burned the Royal Crown, Then we scampered to Bahia, fer to sink the gay Tycoon, And to scuttle the Justina, before the Harvest Moon. We hit across the ocean to race by Cape Good Hope And in Madagascar channel towed Johanna with a rope. Away off at Sumatra, we had lots an' lots uv fun, When we winged the Pulo Condor; but say,--we had a run, An' a pretty bit uv fightin', when we took the Emma Jane Off th' heated coast uv India, near th' bendin' sugar cane. Yes, we did some privateerin', as wuz privateerin', sure, An' we scuttled many a schooner, it wuz risky business pure. But--stranger--we'd be laughin', jest filled with persiflage, If we hadn't had a seance with that bloomin' Kearsarge."

--Song of the Chief Mate of the Alabama.--1864.

It was off the east coast of South America. The year was 1864, and a little schooner--the Justina--bobbed along, with the flag of the United States Government flying jauntily from her gaff.

Suddenly there was a movement on deck. Men rushed hither and thither with some show of excitement. Glasses were brought out and raised,--smothered cries of excitement were mingled with orders to trim sails. All eyes looked with suspicion and dismay at a long, graceful vessel which was seen approaching from the northward.

"The Alabama!" cried one.

"Yes, the cursed Alabama!" answered another. "We are lost!"

On, on came the pursuing vessel; a cloud of black smoke rolling from her smoke-stack; her white sails bellying in the fresh breeze; for she was rigged like a barquentine, with a lean body, single smoke-stack, and a polished rifle-gun winking in the sun-rays upon her bow. On, on, she came, and then--puff! boom!--a single shot came dancing in front of the slow-moving schooner.

"Pull down the colors!" shouted the Captain of the Justina. "We're done for!"

Down came the ensign of the United States, and the little schooner was luffed so that she stood still. The Alabama ranged up alongside, a boat soon brought a crew of boarders, and, before many moments, she was in the hands of Captain Raphael Semmes and his men.