The Bedford Nell

When the night winds blow in from the open sea,
And darkness sifts down in the busy street,
That's always the lonesomest time for me;
It's always the time when my stubborn old feet
Go hurrying down to the shipping docks,
And there I just linger and smoke and dream;
There's music to me in the creaking of blocks,
Or the grumble of winches and spitting of steam;
And the smell of the wet hemp that is paid away free,
Or the keen scent of spice from an open ship's hold,
Are like food and drink to a body like me,
For they warm up the heart when a sailorman's cold.

But that's not the reason I've haunted the piers,
And listened to yarns that the sailormen tell;
And strained my old eyes gazing seaward for years &mdash
It's just for one look at the old Bedford Nell,
For none of the packets that I've ever seen
Could fetch my eye twice like this one that I knew;
She was just a pull-haul-y old brigantine
When we sailed out of Bedford in seventy-two,
But blast her sea-pitted old water-logged planks!
I'd know her the minute I heard her ship's bell,
And under full canvas she'd play up such pranks
I'd someway just feel 'twas the Bedford Nell;
Can I ever forget how I cursed the old shell,
With bad luck to the owners who shipped me as mate;
Those bitter nights under the Cross, and the hell
When famine-eyed seamen were raving with hate;
The days when the monsoons were scorching us sore,
And cholera was snuffing the lives of our crew;
When we hoisted the old yellow rag at the fore,
And crept into Shanghai with the watch two and two!
Yes, the ratty old hooker was logged full of grief;
She was patched with old shoring just aft the port bow
When she nigh laid her bones on the Barrier Reef,
And we limped into Sydney &mdash Lord only knows how!
And she bears a memento of that hellish night
When a mutiny brewed in the fo'c's'le-head,
And the beggars rushed aft and began to show fight;
The bo'sun was down and the second mate dead
When we cut the dogs back, and we fought to the hatch
And we pitched 'em below, every man on his head &mdash
And I know, to this day, there's a crimson patch
On her quarter-deck planks &mdash for the scuppers ran red!

Oh, she leaked and she stank and her tales are too grim,
But before her sea-rotted old canvas is furled;
And before my old eyes get too watery and dim;
And before she goes down on the reefs of the world,
I must have one last look at the craft I like best,
And listen once more to the old watches' bell &mdash
So I'm waiting each night, and I never shall rest
Till I sight my old packet &mdash the Bedford Nell.