’Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when
she’d break;
Wondered every time she raced if she’d
stand the shock;
Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake;
Hoped the Lord ’ud keep his thumb on the
plummer-block.
Banged against the iron decks,
bilges choked with coal;
Flayed and frozen foot and
hand, sick of heart and soul;
Last we prayed she’d
buck herself into judgment Day—
Hi! we cursed the Bolivar—knocking
round the Bay!
O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still—
Up and down and back we went, never time for
breath;
Then the money paid at Lloyd’s caught her by
the heel,
And the stars ran round and round dancin’
at our death.
Aching for an hour’s
sleep, dozing off between;
’Heard the rotten rivets
draw when she took it green;
’Watched the compass
chase its tail like a cat at play—
That was on the Bolivar, south
across the Bay.
Once we saw between the squalls, lyin’ head
to swell—
Mad with work and weariness, wishin’ they
was we—
Some damned Liner’s lights go by like a long
hotel;
Cheered her from the Bolivar—swampin’
in the sea.
Then a grayback cleared us
out, then the skipper laughed;
“Boys, the wheel has
gone to Hell—rig the winches aft!
Yoke the kicking rudder-head—get
her under way!”
So we steered her, pulley-haul,
out across the Bay!
Just a pack o’ rotten plates puttied up with
tar,
In we came, an’ time enough, ’cross Bilbao
Bar.
Overloaded, undermanned, meant
to founder, we
Euchred God Almighty’s
storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!
Seven men from all the
world, back to town again,
Rollin’ down the
Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Seven men from out of
Hell. Ain’t the owners gay,
’Cause we took
the “Bolivar” safe across the Bay?
Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing
the Union Jack, remained fluttering in the flames
for some time, but ultimately when it fell the
crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to
see significance in the incident.—Daily
papers.
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering
to and fro—
And what should they know of England who only England
know?—
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and
fume and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp
at the English Flag!
Must we borrow a clout from the Boer—to
plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar’s
bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?
We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell
or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World,
declare!
The North Wind blew:—“From Bergen
my steel-shod vanguards go;
I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
By the great North Lights above me I work the will
of God,
And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger
fills with cod.
