There was an ancient carver who fashioned a saint ;
\nBut the parson wouldn’t have it, so he took a pot of paint,
\nAnd changed its angel-garments for a dashing soldier-rig,
\nAnd said it was a figure-head and sold it to a brig.<\/p>\n
The brig hauled her mainsail to an off-shore draught,
\nThen she shook her snowy royals and the Scillies went abaft,
\nAnd cloudy with her canvas she ran before the Trade,
\nTill she came to the Equator where she struck a merry -maid.<\/p>\n
A string of pearls and conches were all of her togs,
\nBut the porpoises and flying-fish they followed her like dogs ;
\nShe had a voice of silver and lips of coral red ;
\nShe climbed the dolphin-striker and kissed the figure-head.<\/p>\n
The captain wore his blue coat with buttons of brass ;
\nThe mate he greased his forelock at the cabin looking-glass ;
\nThe bos’un paced the fo’castle and coughed ” Ah ha, ahem ! ”
\nBut the merry-maid she turned her back and wouldn’t look at them.<\/p>\n
And every starry evening she’d swim in the foam
\nAbout the bows a-singing like a nightingale at home.
\nShe’d call to him and sing to him as sweetly as a bird,
\nBut the wooden-headed effigy he never said a word.<\/p>\n
And every starry evening in the Doldrum calms
\nShe’d wriggle up the bob-stay and throw her tender arms
\nAbout his scarlet shoulders, and fondle him and cry,
\nAnd stroke his curly whiskers, but he never winked an eye.<\/p>\n
She couldn’t get an answer to her tears or moans,
\nSo she went and told her daddy, told the ancient Davy Jones.
\nOld Davy damned his eyesight, and puzzled of his wits
\nThen he whistled up his hurricanes and tore the brig to bits.<\/p>\n
Down on the ocean-bed, green fathoms deep,
\nWhere the wrecks lie rotting and the great sea-serpents creep,
\nIn a gleaming grotto all built of sailors’ bones
\nSits the handsome figure-head, listening to Miss Jones.<\/p>\n
Songs o’ love she sings him the live-long day,
\nAnd she hangs upon his bosom and sobs the night away,
\nBut he never, never answers, for beneath his soldier paint
\nThe wooden-headed lunatic still thinks that he’s a saint.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
from Vagabond Verses<\/em>, by Crosbie Garstin (1887-1930). Sidgwick and Jackson, 1917.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n LINKS<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/strong>–\u00a0 Open Library: Vagabond Verses<\/em> by Crosbie Garston<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n – Cornwall Artists Index: a brief biography <\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n