A Ballad of the Floe
The noddy lay sick-a-bed;
The bread was low in the bin;
The dogs howled all night long
And the ice-pans drifted in.
The white fog heaved with the sound–
The crash and thunder and grind;
The landwash flinched at the shock,
And the mad seas roared behind.
The noddy turned in his pain,
And tumbled his narrow bed.
“The b’ys be away tomorry
For Bert’s at the swilin,” he said.
He saw the wife at his side,
And the fear by the wan smile hid.
“The swilers will sail without me.
I grieves for yerself and the kid.’
”The swilers bes off to-morry,
To steam and drift and kill:
They’ll catch the whitecoats nappin’-
But I’ll make nary a bill.”
“Hush,” said the woman, “hush.
There bes bread an’ fixins to spare.”
She straightened his shabby blanket
And smoothed his bedraggled hair.
“They’ll find the swile i’ the Straits...
Log-loaded off Signal Hill...
The b’ys will be drinkin’ at Tobin’s...
And I’ll have nary a bill.”
“Hush,” said the woman, “hush.”
She stroked the hand on the sheet.
Her heart was here in the room,
But his was out with the fleet.
The woman came from the storm,
Her blown shawl over her head.
“The mail bes come to the harbor
Wid news from the swilin’,” she said.
“The Walrus made S’int John’s
On Sunday mornin’ at ten–
Log-loaded”—she stooped above him—
“Log loaded wid frozen men.”
The noddy turned in his pain,
Rocking the narrow bed.
“An’ meself was for sailin’ wid Bartlett
To make ye a bill,” he said.
