A Salt Sea Yarn

There was an ancient carver that carved of a saint, But the parson wouldn't have it, so he took a pot of paint And changed its angel garment for a dashing soldier rig, And said it was a figure-head and sold it to a brig.

The brig hauled her mainsail to an off-shore draught, Then she shook her snowy royals and the Scillies went abaft; And cloudy with her canvas she ran before the Trade Till she got to the Equator, where she struck a merrymaid.

A string of pearls and conches were all of her togs, But the flying-fish and porpoises they followed her like dogs; She had a voice of silver and lips of coral red, She climbed the dolphin-striker and kissed the figure-head.

Then every starry evening she'd swim in the foam About the bows, a-singing like a nightingale at Home; She'd call to him and sing to him as sweetly as a bird, But the wooden-headed effigy he never said a word.

And every starry evening in the Doldrum calms She'd wriggle up the bobstay and throw her tender arms About his scarlet shoulders and fondle him and cry And stroke his curly whiskers, but he never winked an eye.

She couldn't get an answer to her tears or moans, So she went and told her daddy, told the ancient Davy Jones; Old Davy damned his eyesight and puzzled of his wits, Then whistled up his hurricanes and tore the brig to bits.

Down on the ocean-bed, green fathoms deep, Where the wrecks lie rotting and great sea-serpents creep, In a gleaming grotto all built of sailors' bones, Sits the handsome figure-head, listening to Miss Jones.

Songs o' love she sings him the livelong day, And she hangs upon his bosom and sobs the night away, But he never, never answers, for beneath his soldier paint The wooden-headed lunatic still thinks that he's a saint.