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Oh, the ladies left their scrubbing and policemen left their beats

To march behind the pirates down the dirty narrow streets.

They went along the narrow streets until they reached the ship,

And saw a man with a wooden leg, with pistols on his hip.

They trembled and they shivered and they stumbled and they shrank,

For his single eye was on 'em as they crowded up the plank.

They crowded up and filled the deck, the cabin, and the hold

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Their families were waiting with the supper getting

cold.

The ship hove up her anchor, not a soul was left

behind

Their children cried at home for them, their lonely ladies pined.

The ship set out across the sea, it left the beaten track,

And no one ever saw it and it never came back.

Some say it sailed the Southern seas away from winter's cold;

And others say it went a-hunting pirates' hidden gold.

TUSITALA'S CHRISTENING ODE 73

Nobody ever saw it but a girl shut in with cough; She leaned out of her window and she saw it sailing off.

From the window of her tenement she waved her little hands;

She heard the captain on the bridge call out his clear commands.

She said he was a thinnish man, with whitish face and wan,

And the name the sailors called him by was Captain

STEVENSON.

W. L. Werner

"TUSITALA'S" CHRISTENING ODE

Down the bleak, lamp-lit lanes,

Through gusts and squalls of bitter, northern rains,
Strides the figure of a lonely lad, his heart on fire.
Blazing his eyes with passionate desire

For laughter, love and wine, and sunlit France,
Friends and Romance!

Uncouth,

In velvet coat and black shirt strangely clad,
Friend of all sad,

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Down by the docks in Brooklyn,

Where the tides run swift and strong,
There's a thrill of music in the air

To the swing of an old sea-song.

For there a tall ship lifts aloft
Her stately, soaring spars,
And there the ghost of a lonely lad,
All night beneath the stars,

Treads the deck from stem to stern,
Dancing with ghostly glee.
"For they call her 'Tusitala'!

They've named her after me!"

Still down bleak, lamp-lit lanes,

Cursing the rains,

Pass other lads, lonely and sick as he,

Craving romance, laughter, and friends! Yet we, More fortunate, have him whose name

We cherish as a very flame

That warms, through books, the heart grown sick and sad

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Down where the salt sea-reaches

Reëcho the gull's wild cry,

There's a gleaming hull, and the patterned

spars

Of a tall ship fill the sky.

O more than ship! For aboard her
The lonely and friendless find
Laughter romance- adventure,
And love, most nobly shrined!

The ghost of a lonely lad looks down,
And smiles with incredulous glee:

HOMEWARD BOUND

"For they call her 'Tusitala'!

They've named her after me!"

R. D. Turnbull

75

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The following message was written by Joseph Conrad for the Tusitala. The MS. is framed in the ship's cabin: New York, 2nd June, 1923

On leaving this hospitable country, where the cream is excellent and the milk of human kindness apparently never ceases to flow, I assume an ancient mariner's privilege of sending to the owners and the ship's company of the Tusitala my brotherly good wishes for fair winds and clear skies on all their voyages. And may they be many!

And I would recommend to them to watch the weather, to keep the halliards clear for running, to remember that "any fool can carry on, but only the wise man knows how to shorten sail”...and so on, in the manner of ancient mariners all the world over. But the vital truth of sea life is to be found in the ancient saying that it is "the stout hearts that make the ship safe."

Having been brought up on it, I pass it on to them in all confidence and affection.

Joseph Conrad

HOMEWARD BOUND

The lights that gleam along the coast know well our passing lights;

The stars that glitter overhead, through countless sultry nights

Have watched us trail the same white wake across the same dark sea;

Sky, land and ocean lie the same, but newborn men

are we.

We've touched at every sun-scorched port along this blazing shore

Ceara, Para, Maranho', and others half a score. We've left four shipmates sleeping 'neath the fevermisted ground,

But their loss can't damp our spirits, for tonight we're homeward bound!

The hiss of foam beneath the bows, the engine's throbbing swing,

Have wearied us for months and yet tonight they seem to sing

In harmony a wondrous song: "The time of trial is

past

Bahia's lights drop back astern - we're homeward bound at last!"

The lookout on the fo'c'sle head, the Black-gang down below,

Are singing as the lights glide past and ever north

we go.

"Four points to port!" The big wheel spins, the heavy bows veer round

And straighten out for open sea. Thank God! We're homeward bound!

William Daniel

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