A hurly-burly, hurl-wind Is hurrying o’ er the waves; Before it runs the Girl-wind Fresh up from the Ocean caves.
She’ s the little puff who goes before To tell of the blow that’ s coming, She sounds like a hive when winters o’ er And you hear the bees a-humming.
It’ s all very well when a young girl can Come tripping along with laughter; But not so nice when you see the old man With a big stick coming after.
It’ s just the same with Everything When pleasure runs before us, You drink your wine and think it’ s fine:— Then comes the tavern scoreus!
So we went forth upon our different ways — And these were wide — to many a distant shore: I to my home to put in form these lays, And think upon this strange wild sailor-lore,
In which, to him who reads with generous heart, As in a museum we seem to see The strangest relics gathered far apart — Rude, coarse, and rough, yet touched with poetry;
Like shells and gems and coins of olden time, And worthless stones, all hardened in a mass, Such as I’ ve seen, fished from the ocean’ s slime, Such are these men and melodies — alas!
They all are of an age half past away. Where is the boatswain now?— who hears his call? And where these sailing packets once so gay? I to myself do seem traditional
And all my youth a legend — so to say — Yet well or ill I’ ve done the best I could To make in truthful song a little show Of quaint old tales, now little understood,
Of the North End of Boston — long ago.
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