To people who allege that we
Incline to overrate the Sea
I answer, “We do not;
Apart from being colored blue,
It has its uses not a few;
I cannot think what we should do
If ever ‘the deep did rot.’”
Take ships, for instance. You will note
That, lacking stuff on which to float,
They could not get about;
Dreadnought and liner, smack and yawl,
And other types that you’ll recall—
They simply could not sail at all
If Ocean once gave out.
And see the trouble which it saves
To islands; but for all those waves
That made us what we are—
But for their help so kindly lent,
Europe could march right through to Kent
And never need to circumvent
A single British tar.
Take fish, again. I have in mind
No better field that they could find
For exercise or sport;
How would the whale, I want to know,
The blubbery whale contrive to blow?
Where would your playful kipper go
If the supply ran short?
And hence we rank the Ocean high;
But there are privy reasons why
Its praise is on my lip:
I deem it, when my heart is set
On walking into something wet,
The nicest medium I have met
In which to take a dip.
Sir Owen Seaman
(1861–1936)
I’d like to return to the world again,
To the dutiful, work-a-day world of men,—
For I’m sick of the beach-comber’s lot,
Of the one volcano flaming hot,
With the snow round its edge and the fire in its throat,
And the tropical island that seems a-float
Like a world set in space all alone in the sea …
How I wish that a ship, it would stop for me.
I’m sick of the brown girl that loves me, I’m sick
Of the cocoanut groves,—you can’t take me too quick
From this place, though it’s rich in all nature can give …
For I want to return where it’s harder to live,
Where men struggle for life, where they work and find sweet
Their rest after toil, and the food that they eat …
What? A ship’s in the offing? … dear God, let me hide,—
They’re in need of a sailor, are waiting for the tide
To put off? … I will hide where the great cliff hangs sheer—
Give ’em mangoes and goats, and don’t tell ‘em I’m here!
Harry Kemp
(1883–1960)
My neighbour, Mrs Fanshaw, is portly-plump and gay,
She must be over sixty-seven, if she is a day.
You might have thought her life was dull,
It’s one long whirl instead.
I asked her about it, and this is what she said:
I’ve joined an Olde Thyme Dance Club, the trouble is that there
Are too many ladies over, and no gentlemen to spare.
It seems a shame, it’s not the same,
But still it has to be,
Some ladies have to dance together,
One of them is me.
Stately as a galleon, I sail across the floor,
Doing the Military Two-step, as in the days of yore.
I dance with Mrs Tiverton; she’s light on her feet, in spite
Of turning the scale at fourteen stone, and being of medium height.
So gay the band,
So giddy the sight,
Full evening dress is a must,
But the zest goes out of a beautiful waltz
When you dance it bust to bust.
So, stately as a galleon, I sail across the floor,
Doing the Valse Valeta as in the days of yore.
The gent is Mrs Tiverton, I am her lady fair,
She bows to me ever so nicely and I curtsey to her with care.
So gay the band,
So giddy the sight,
But it’s not the same in the end
For a lady is never a gentleman, though
She may be your bosom friend.
So, stately as a galleon, I sail across the floor,
Doing the dear old Lancers, as in the days of yore.
I’m led by Mrs Tiverton, she swings me round and round
And though she manoeuvres me wonderfully well
I never get off the ground.
So gay the band,
So giddy the sight,
I try not to get depressed.
And it’s done me a power of good to explode,
And get this off my chest.
Joyce Grenfell
(1910–1979)
Of all the ships upon the blue,
No ship contained a better crew
Than that of worthy CAPTAIN REECE
Commanding of The Mantelpiece.
He was adored by all his men,
For worthy CAPTAIN REECE, R.N.,
Did all that lay within him to
Promote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad,
Their captain danced to them like mad,
Or told, to make the time pass,
Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather bed had every man,
Warm slippers and hot-water can,
Brown windsor from the captain’s store,
A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn?
Lo, seltzogenes at every turn,
And on all very sultry days
Cream ices handed round on trays.
Then currant wine and ginger pops
Stood handily on all the “tops”;
And, also with amusement rife,
A “Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life.”
New volumes came across the sea,
From MISTER MUDIE’S libraree;
The Times and Saturday Review
Beguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-hearted CAPTAIN REECE, R.N.,
Was quite devoted to his men;
In point of fact, good CAPTAIN REECE
Beatified The Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half-past ten,
He said (addressing all his men):
“Come, tell me please, what can I do
To please and gratify my crew?
“By any reasonable plan
I’ll make you happy, if I can;
My own convenience count as nil;
It is my duty, and I will.”
Then up and answered WILLIAM LEE
(The kindly captain’s coxswain he,
A nervous, shy, soft-spoken man),
He cleared his throat and thus began:
“You have a daughter, CAPTAIN REECE,
Ten female cousins and a niece,
A ma, if what I’m told is true
Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
“Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,
More friendly-like we all should be
If you united of ’em to
Unmarried members of the crew.
“If you’d ameliorate our life,
Let each select from them a wife;
And as for nervous me, old pal
Give me your own enchanting gal!”
Good CAPTAIN REECE, that worthy man,
Debated on his coxswain’s plan:
“I quite agree,” he said, “O Bill;
It is my duty, and I will.
“My daughter, that enchanting gurl,
Has just been promised to an earl,
And all my other familee,
To peers of various degree.
“But what are dukes and viscounts to
The happiness of all my crew?
The word I gave you I’ll fulfil,
It is my duty, and I will.”
“As you desire it shall befall,
I’ll settle thousands on you all,
And I shall be, despite my hoard,
The only bachelor on board.”
The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,
He blushed and spoke to CAPTAIN REECE.
“I beg your honour’s leave,” he said,
“If you would wish to go and wed,
“I have a widowed mother who
Would be the very thing for you
She long has loved you from afar,
She washes for you, CAPTAIN R.”
The captain saw the dame that day—
Addressed her in his playful way—
“And did it want a wedding ring?
It was a tempting ickle sing!
“Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,
We’ll be married this day week—
At yonder church upon the hill;
It is my duty, and I will!”
The sisters, cousins, aunts and niece,
And widowed ma of CAPTAIN REECE,
Attended there as they were bid;
It was their duty, and they did.
William Schwenck Gilbert
(1836–1911)
O the Harbour of Fowey
Is a beautiful spot,
And it’s there I enjowey
To sail in a yot;
Or to race in a yacht
Round a mark or a buoy—
Such a beautiful spacht
Is the Harbour of Fouy!
When her anchor is weighed
And the water she ploughs,
Upon neat lemoneighed
O it’s then I caroughs;
And I take Watt’s hymns
And I sing them aloud
When it’s homeward she skymns
O’er the waters she ploud.
But the wave-mountain high,
And the violent storm,
Do I risk them? Not igh!
But prefer to sit worm
With a book on my knees
By the library fire,
While I list to the brees
Rising hire and hire.
Up the anchor or not,
I am happy each deigh
In my home or my yot;
Every care I resign,
Every comfort enjoy,
In this cottage of mign
By the Harbour of Foy.
And my leisure’s addressed
To composing of verse
Which, if hardly the bessed,
Might be easily werse.
And, the spelling I use
Should the critics condemn,
Why, I have my own vuse
And I don’t think of themn.
Yes, I have my own views:
But the teachers I follow
Are the Lyrical Miews
And the Delphic Apollow.
Unto them I am debtor
For spelling and rhyme,
And I’m doing it bebtor
And bebtor each rhyme.
Sir Arthur Quiller Couch
(1863–1944)
In London stands a famous pile,
And near that pile an Alley,
Where merry crowds for riches toil,
And wisdom stoops to folly.
Here, sad and joyful, high and low,
Court Fortune for her graces;
And as she smiles or frowns, they show
Their gestures and their grimaces.
Here, Stars and Garters do appear
Among our lords the rabble;
To buy and sell, to see and hear
The Jews and Gentiles squabble.
Here, crafty Courtiers are too wise
For those who trust to fortune;
They see the cheat with clearer eyes,
Who peep behind the curtain.
Long heads may thrive, by sober rules;
Because they think, and drink not;
But headlongs are our thriving fools,
Who only drink, and think not.
The lucky rogues like spaniel dogs,
Leap into South Sea water;
And there they fish for golden frogs,
Nor caring what comes after.
’Tis said that alchemists of old
Could turn a brazen kettle,
Or leaden cistern into gold;
That noble tempting metal.
But (if it here may be allowed,
To bring in great with small things)
Our cunning South Sea like a god,
Turns nothing into all things.
What need we of Indian wealth,
Or commerce with our neighbours;
Our Consitution is in health,
And riches crown our labours.
Our South Sea ships have golden shrouds,
They bring us wealth ’tis granted:
But lodge their treasures in the clouds,
To hide it till it’s wanted.
O, Britain! bless thy present state!
Thou only happy nation!
So oddly rich, so madly great,
Since Bubbles came in fashion.
Successful rakes exert their pride,
And count their airy millions;
Whilst homely drabs in coaches ride,
Brought up to Town on pillions.
Few men who follow reason’s rules,
Grow fat with South Sea diet;
Young rattles and unthinking fools
Are those that flourish by it.
Old musty jades, and pushing blades,
Who’ve least consideration,
Grow rich apace; while wiser heads
Are struck with admiration.
A race of men, who, t’other day,
Lay crushed beneath disasters,
Are now, by Stock, brought into play,
And made our lords and masters.
But should our South Sea Babel fall,
What numbers would be frowning;
The losers then must case their gall
By hanging, or by drowning.
Five hundred millions, notes and bonds,
Our Stocks are worth in value:
But neither lie in goods, or lands,
Or money, let me tell ye.
Yet though our foreign trade is lost,
Of mighty wealth we vapour;
When all the riches that we boast
Consist of scraps of paper.
Ned Ward
(1667–1731)
With lovers, ’twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion;
No matter what the gift they sent,
The Lady saw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,
Took the boar’s head her Hero gave her;
Nor could the bristly thing affront her,
’Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When Squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame:
Some by a snip of woven hair,
In posied lockets bribe the fair;
How many mercenary matches
Have sprung from Di’mond-rings and watches!
But hold—a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a Poet’s pocket;
He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev’n he prodigal of thought.
Why then send Lampreys? fye, for shame!
’Twill set a virgin’s blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!
It might lend sixty five a lift.
I know your maiden Aunt will scold,
And think my present somewhat bold.
I see her lift her hands and eyes.
“What eat it, Niece? eat Spanish flies!
Lamprey’s a most immodest diet:
You’ll neither wake nor sleep in quiet.
Should I to night eat Sago cream,
’Twould make me blush to tell my dream;
If I eat Lobster, ’tis so warming,
That ev’ry man I see looks charming;
Wherefore had not the filthy fellow
Laid Rochester upon your pillow?
I vow and swear, I think the present
Had been as modest and as decent.
Who has her virtue in her power?
Each day has its unguarded hour;
Always in danger of undoing,
A prawn, a shrimp may prove our ruin!
The shepherdess, who lives on salad,
To cool her youth, controuls her palate;
Should Dian’s maids turn liqu’rish livers,
And of huge lampreys rob the rivers,
Then all beside each glade and Visto,
You’d see Nymphs lying like Calisto.
The man who meant to heat your blood,
Needs not himself such vicious food—”
In this, I own, your Aunt is clear,
I sent you what I well might spare:
For when I see you, (without joking)
Your eyes, lips, breasts, are so provoking,
They set my heart more cock-a-hoop,
Than could whole seas of craw-fish soupe.
John Gay
(1685–1732)
(To be read in a quiet New England accent.)
Near the celebrated Lido where the breeze is fresh and free
Stands the ancient port of Venice called the City of the Sea.
All its streets are made of water, all its homes are brick and stone,
Yet it has a picturesqueness which is justly all its own.
Here for centuries have artists come to see the vistas quaint,
Here Bellini set his easel, here he taught his School to paint.
Here the youthful Giorgone gazed upon the domes and towers,
And interpreted his era in a way which pleases ours.
A later artist, Tintoretto, also did his paintings here,
Massive works which generations have continued to revere.
Still to-day come modern artists to portray the buildings fair
And their pictures may be purchased on San Marco’s famous Square.
When the bell notes from the belfries and the campaniles chime
Still to-day we find Venetians elegantly killing time
In their gilded old palazzos, while the music in our ears
Is the distant band at Florians mixed with songs of gondoliers.
Thus the New World meets the Old World and the sentiments expressed
Are melodiously mingled in my warm New England breast.
Sir John Betjeman
(1906–1984)
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?
“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.
Lewis Carroll
(1832–1898)
Sea Shell, Sea Shell,
Sing me a song, O Please!
A song of ships and pirate men,
And parrots, and tropical trees.
Of islands lost in the Spanish Main
Which no man ever may find again,
Of fishes and corals under the waves,
And sea-horses stabled in great green caves.
Sea Shell, Sea Shell,
Sing of the things you know so well.
Amy Lowell
(1874–1925)
You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play,
Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and you dart;
In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves were more gay,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
The herring are not in the tides as they were of old;
My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the cart
That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when his oar
Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart,
Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
William Butler Yeats
(1865–1939)
