AN OTTER’S TALE
lying at anchor in the Downs a mackerel sky of keening gulls lift and lilt o’ broad upland downs bustards hover o’er Brighthelmstone tarry breeks, me, a Hampshire hog tucked hard by Bucklers Hard, the slips wrights rivet deals in shape o’ ships beyond the hamlet, tideways o’ Beaulieu all sails set, the heave o’ the sea i ached to sling my hammock ride hard a gale might break thy gall stiff and stark upon the yards dark, whirling clouds whip waterspouts foremastmen quake up i’ the shrouds e’en a buck o’ the first haul swaying up the topgallant mast a skylark amid the shrouds i clung to cordage fast sea running steeples high, drops steep in sudden rills our barque would like as ship whole seas white about the gills ‘tis a rejoicing day to cross the line, crossing the Equator green hands must pay bottle and pound to mix a punch o’ spirits and sugar halfseas o’er, all merry and malty lubbers squirting quids o’ baccy greenhorns ‘scape ducking and hoisting thrice after impressed at sea to serve the Crown boarded in a jiff bearded the frog’s frigates, that seven year tiff a mere Wappineer tar, a merchant salt homewardbound
jugged more ‘n a month alas ere masterknob struck bilboes us jacks harried and chased, exchanged broadsides blockades, enemy tubs capsized a dozen sail o’ prizes topman running the Barbadoes aloft i’ the Caribee a dram o’ bumbo, a cheery Sol call o’ the bellied sail a turtled, turquoise sea salt beef five year i’ the keg fresh green tortoise delicious peck tortlers o’erturn the shell, disjoint it scrape, scoop and jerk the meat wizened noll shedding tears nodding at blade’s edge as gangsman, pressed at shore round about the custom house and naval stores cast salt on the tail o’ many a tar womenfolk and childer slung stones, oaths, battledores to shun the press, roadblocks, lobsters alert wear landsman’s clothes, ne’er weeds o’ the slop shop doff thy seahabit: short jacket, trowsers, check shirt avert thy face that’s weatherbeat, the otter’s rolling gait box the compass off the hooks steer small, creep in at the hawseholes smell the weather, the tang o’ salt whetting thy chops be up to the ropes sail the same boat by the book and sweep high altitudes like Captain Cook broke for sleeping on dogwatch the devil to pay and no pitch hot belayingpin soup, served out by the officers hard salteel for supper twelve lashes at gangway for laggards thou rivest thine own chains i’ the main preferment scotch’d
a peg whizzed away by a ninepound rake fiz by grains o’ battlepowder bowsprit by a caulk of arrack – or p’raps a blow with French faggotstick beating round Cape Despair wrecks warped up i’ the sand albatross i’ the air hauled up, boated the devil may dance in my pocket no smartmoney, no Greenwich goose ship blown up at Point Nonplus bucklehammed stumplegged ropeyfammed
Michael Small
November 22 – December 28, 2007