The fog was so thick yer could cut it ‘ Thout reachin’ a foot over-side, The dory she'd nose up ter butt it, And then git discouraged an’ slide;
No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin’, Or, maybe, the swash of a wave, No feller ter cheer yer by speakin’ — ‘ Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave.
I set there an’ thought of my trouble, I thought how I'd worked fer the cash That bust and went up like a bubble The day that the bank went ter smash.
I thought how the fishin’ was failin’, How little this season I'd made, I thought of the child that was ailin’, I thought of the bills ter be paid.
“And,” says I, “All my life I've been fightin’ Through oceans of nothin’ but fog; And never no harbor a-sightin’ — Jest driftin’ around like a log;
No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin’, I never see nothin’ ahead: I'm sick and disgusted with tryin’ — I jest wish ter God I was dead.”
It wa'n' t more'n a minute, I'm certain, The words was jest out er my mouth, When up went the fog, like a curtain, And “puff” came the breeze from the south;
And‘ bout a mile off, by rough guessin’, I see my own shanty on shore, And Mary, my wife and my blessin’, God keep her, she stood in the door.
And I says ter myself, “I'm a darlin’; A chap with a woman like that, To set here a-grumblin’ and snarlin’, As sour as a sulky young brat —
I'd better jest keep my helm steady, And not mind the fog that's adrift, For when the Lord gits good and ready, I reckon it's certain ter lift.”
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