Derelict

(Notices to Mariners: 'North Atlantic Ocean, — derelict reported')

'We left 'er 'eaded for Lord knows where, in latitude forty-nine,
With a cargo o' deals from Puget Sound, an' 'er bows blown out by a mine;
I seen 'er just as the dark come down — I seen 'er floatin' still —
An' I 'ope them deals 'd let 'er sink afore so long' (said Bill).

'It warn't no use to stand by 'er — she could neither sail nor steer —
With the biggest part of a thousand mile between 'er an' Cape Clear;
The sea was up to 'er waterways, an' gainin' fast below,
But I 'd like to know she went to 'er rest as a ship's a right to go.

'For it's bitter 'ard on a decent ship, look at it 'ow you may,
That's worked 'er traverse an' stood 'er trick an' done 'er best in 'er day,
To be driftin' around like a nine-days-drowned on the Western Ocean swell,
With never a hand to reef an' furl an' steer an' strike the bell.

'No one to tend 'er binnacle lamps or light 'er mast'ead light,
Or scour 'er plankin', or scrape 'er seams, when the days are sunny an' bright;
No one to set on the hatch an' smoke an' yarn when work is done,
Or say, "That gear wants reevin' new some fine dog-watch, my son."'

'No one to stand by tack an' sheet when it's comin' on to blow,
Never the roar of "Rio Grande" to the watch's stamp an' go;
An' the seagulls settin' along the rail an' callin' the long day through,
Like the souls of old dead sailormen as used to be her crew.

'Never a port of all 'er ports for 'er to fetch again . . .
Nothin', only the sea an' the sky, the sun, the wind an' the rain, —
It's cruel 'ard on a decent ship, an' so I tell you true,
An' I wish I knew she 'ad gone to 'er rest as a good ship ought to do.'