The Mad Sailor
Mad, they call me. Mad Dick Chant I be;
Struck so, folk say, by the crashing of reef and sea
That night I was hove ashore in Hermitage Bay
Along wid the timbers an’ spars of The Mary J.
Daft, they call me. Daft Dick Chant be I,
Weeping when others be merry, laughing when others cry;
Running the frothy landwash when the night blows wild,
Or smoking a pipe by the red stove, contented and mild.
Strangers are warned I be queer; a touch on the forehead, so,
Some don’t look at me eye to eye, for fear I’d guess they know.
They give me tobacco and pity an’ leave me go my way—
Sole survivor—Mad Dick Chant—of The Mary J.
They give me bread and meat; a roof to shelter my head;
Tea for my smoky kettle and blankets enough to my bed.
They leave me sit, or step abroad, at my own wild whim.
“But for the Mercy of God,” they say, “we’d be like him.”
But for the mercy of God! I have my laugh at that...
When the moon is round and the tide all shiny and flat
I steal away in the shadows of rocks, and wet rocks let me through...
But for the Mercy of God, say I, I’d be the same as you!
Deep in Witchery Cave the tides and moon spin green,
Spinning a gleam the noddies ashore have never guessed nor seen:
And old King Neptune’s daughters there are playing on harps of shell:
They sing for me and laugh like bells at the sailor yarns I tell.
Skipper Nolan’s got a girl from Bully Bay for his bride.
I know a room by sea-lamps lit, down under the swelling tide—
A secret place; and a king’s daughter with breasts agleam like pearl:
And poor Dick Chant is a prince down there in the arms of his deep-sea girl.
When the blind gale blows black and loud I hear her call to me—
The silver voice, through the crashing surf, of my sweetheart under-sea:
And so I run the spouting reef, splashing the wild night through,
Breasting the surf with my strong heart—for my mad dreams are true.
And when the moon is white and round I wade into the tide
To sink among the oaring fish and glide where black eels glide;
And silky curtains of purple weed part and let me down
To where the love of my true heart waits in a tide-spun gown.
Mad, they call me. Mad Dick Chant I be—
A poor, daft seafaring fool ashore but a lover under the sea.
Meat and bread they give me, and leave me go my way
Down to the arms of a king’s daughter under the shiny bay.
Mad Dick Chant they call me. Mad as the wind be I,
Running all night along the rocks to hear my dear love’s cry.
Pity and blankets they give me and a roof to shelter my head;
And little they guess of the truth of the place I make my bed!
Down in Witchery Cave the tides and moon spin green:
Green gowns for a sea-king’s daughters and for a king and queen,
And a princely robe for a laughing sailor, courting his gentle bride.
Poor Dick Chant I be ashore—but a lover under the tide!
