Ballads of the Sea

Wonderful. Thank you for starting a thread with "Ballads of the Sea."
I am taking an English Class and we are reading Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

It is a wonderful poem, and very descriptive of life at sea. I am reposting my class assignment here. It is a close reading of: Part One, Lines 20-60

You will find the entire poem here, and this is my source for the text:

http://www.enotes.com/rime-ancient-t...ncient-mariner

Enjoy!

---

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (page 906)
A portion of this poem: Part 1, Lines 20-60

We have a wedding guest listening to an old sailor telling tales about the sea during a wedding ceremony. The first part describes the departure of a ship:

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

A crowd cheers the ship's departure from the port, as it sails out to sea, leaving the harbour behind.

Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top.

I particularly like this description of what it is like to head out to sea, as you watch the horizon change from land to water. "Merrily" because there is a freedom as you leave the constraints of land-life, or leave behind "land lubbers" who represent problems and alienation to many sailors. The seafaring life is peaceful, and carefree in some ways. Except you are faced with the power of nature. As you get farther from the shore it appears that you are dropping, as you watch the skyline vanish from sight. Obviously a church steeple sticks up high on the horizon, first you watch the steeple vanish, then the hills behind it, and finally a "light house top" that might be located at a very high point on a piece of land that juts out from the coastline.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

(The Mariner tells how
the ship sailed southward
with a good wind
and fair weather, till it
reached the Line.)

Now there is water all around with no land in sight. It is stunning to watch the sun rise out of the ocean in the morning--- and set into the ocean at the end of the day. This description speaks of it, and ads that the sun sets "on the right" -- meaning not straight across, as they are approaching the line of the equator. The sun is described as "He", this expresses that individual components of nature posses their own traits and individuality. "It" can be ignored, but when referred to as"He" is a force to be reckoned with.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon-

And when they reach the line the sun is directly overhead at noon.

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,(30)
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

(The Wedding-
Guest heareth the
bridal music; but the
Mariner continueth his tale.)

The wedding goes on. The bride walks down the aisle as the band plays, and the guests participate, but the mariner keeps talking.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

"The wedding guest he beat his breast" is a signal that the guest is faux coughing to try and interrupt the old sailor in order to attend the wedding festivities. "Spake on that ancient man"-- meaning the Mariner would not interrupt his story and chatted on.

The wedding guest and the old mariner are wrapped up in their storytelling and do not participate in the festivities of the wedding that are going on around them. So the story goes on.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased south along.

(The ship drawn by
a storm toward the
South Pole.)

Well, obviously the ship has encountered a ferocious storm that pushes them southward. "He struck with o'ertaking wings" refers to the force of the winds and currents that take control of the ship's direction. When a ship enters a storm it must ride it out, and wait for better weather, before it can direct its own course. These "o'ertaking wings" also speaks of the dark forces of the storm, and addresses the fear of death, as this deathlike image seems to hover above them. Storms can be terrifying when at sea and they cause many a shipwrecks with loss of life. Again the natural force is identified as "He" to remind us of the force of nature as a powerful being.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

This goes on to describe the incredible force of this storm in more detail, as it applies to the ship and the perspective of the sailor. Loud winds and the idea of death's wings pushing the ship further and further south as the ship tries to escape this great force of nature. The "sloping mast" refers to the ship rocking dramatically back and forth. If you are standing on deck for example, as you attempt to remain upright with the force of gravity, the mast seems to bend to and fro---as the "prow" dips. Basically you just hang on and wait.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

They are approaching the South Pole and it is growing cold. They pass an iceberg that is equal in height to the mast of their ship. The bright white of the ice reflecting the water and the sky-- giving it a greenish blue tint like an Atocha emerald.

[image of an iceberg can be found here]
http://afishblog.com/wp-admin/images...%20iceberg.jpg

Immigrants

No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore.

~Robert Frost

A Ballad of John Silver

We were schooner-rigged and rakish,
with a long and lissome hull,
And we flew the pretty colours of the crossbones and the skull;
We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore.

We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted ship,
We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip;
It's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be deplored,
But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their ships aboard.

Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,
And the paint-work all was spatter dashed with other peoples brains,
She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank.
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank.

O! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on the poop)
We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken coop;
Then, having washed the blood away, we'd little else to do
Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to.

O! the fiddle on the fo'c'sle, and the slapping naked soles,
And the genial "Down the middle, Jake, and curtsey when she rolls!"
With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead,
And the look-out not a-looking and his pipe-bowl glowing red.

Ah! the pig-tailed, quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we played,
All have since been put a stop to by the naughty Board of Trade;
The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest,
A little south the sunset in the islands of the Blest.

~John Masefield

This is a great thread. :) I read and enjoyed this one recently:

'Christmas at Sea' by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Literature Network » Robert Louis Stevenson » Ballads » Christmas At Sea

from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage by Byron

XI.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth’s central line.

XII.

The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o’er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last ‘Good Night.’

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My Native Land - Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.

‘Come hither, hither, my little page:
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow’s rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.’

‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee - and One above.

‘My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.’ -
‘Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.

‘Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?’ -
‘Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I’m not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?’ -
‘Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.’

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o’er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I’m in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He’d tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My Native Land - Good Night!

XIV.

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer ’twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto IV


CLXXIX.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin - his control
Stops with the shore; - upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

CLXXX.

His steps are not upon thy paths, - thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, - thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: - there let him lay.

CLXXXI.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

CLXXXII.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free
And many a tyrant since: their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play -
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow -
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

CLXXXIII.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed - in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime -
The image of Eternity - the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

I quickly scanned the posted but forgive me if this has already been posted.

Crossing the Bar by Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

It's been posted already (naturally, considering its brilliance), but you cannot go by the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, it is one of my favorite poems period.

Interesting you should cite Allan Cunningham, DM, who was born a mile away from where I'm sitting now and wasn't in spite of what you might think English but a Scot. I know you're very interested in the Celtic nations and am currently reading the most brilliant history of the Celtic nations in context, 'The Sea Kingdoms' by Alistair Moffat. It is a work of huge interest and no small brilliance.

In this book Moffat cites, in translation from the Gaelic, what must be one of the earliest sea poems, perhaps the best, 'The Birlinn of Clanranald' by Alasdair macMhaighstir. Here's a bit of it:

The sun bursting golden yellow
from his cloud husk;
then the sky grew tawny, smokey,
full of gloom.
It waxed wave-blue, thick, buff-speckled,
dun and troubled;
every colour of the tartan
marked the heavens.
A rainbow is seen to westward-
stormy pressage;
flying clouds by strong winds riven,
squally showers.

Immigrants

No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore.

~Robert Frost

I've read enough Victor Hugo to realize he had an affinity toward the sea, but I had not read his poetry. Last night I was curious to find out if Hugo had written any poetry regarding the sea.
I discovered Oceano Nox
Here it is in english, which I'm sure does not do the original French justice...

"How many captains and their sailors went
Blithely toward some distant continent
Beyond this bleak horizon, and were lost!
How many vanished-a cruel destiny!-
One moonless night in some unfathomed sea,
In whose blind depths forever they are tossed!

How many skippers perished with their crew!
Across the surge some blast of tempest blew,
And their lives’ pages all were scattered then.
Plunged in the chasm-who will know their fate?
Each passing wave seized some part of the freight,
And this one took the skiff, and that the men.

No one can tell their doom, the poor lost heads
Rolling across those somber ocean beds,
Beating their dead brows in the unknown black.
How many parents, with one dream left, died
Awaiting daily at the harbor’s side
Those who did not come back!

At night people talk of you sometimes here,
Sitting in joyous groups on rusty gear;
Still, now and then, your shadowy names succeed
The songs and laughs and tales of foreign tides
And kisses stolen from your promised brides
While you are sleeping in the salt green weed.

“Why has so-and-so left us all this while?
Could he be king in some prosperous isle?”
But then your memory vanishes away.
Bodies decay in seas, and names in minds.
Time adds to shadows shades of darker kinds:
Somber oblivion bends with somber spray.

Soon, from the eyes of all, your shade has passed.
One has a plow to tend, and one a mast.
Only, at night, when conquering tempests roll,
Your white-browed widows, weary from the waiting,
Still name you, stirring ash within the grating
Of their hearth and their soul.

And when the grave has shut their eyelids too,
Not even a stone remains to speak of you
Within the narrowing echoing cemetery,
Not even a willow dropping foliage,
Not even a beggar on some ancient bridge
Singing a drab and simple melody.

Where are the sailors swallowed by dark sea?
Waves feared by every mother on her knees,
Deep waves, what tales you could recite!
You tell them to us when you climb our shores,
And that is why you utter such wild roars
When you are coming to verge at night."


Here's another seafaring ballad for the younger crew including an illustration by Charles Folkard:
(click on the image to read)

http://i963.photobucket.com/albums/a...h_IMGP2331.jpg


The photo is from a family book of nursey rhymes and fairy tales. The cover, copyright pages have long since dissapeared, so I'm not able to identify the book.

.

One of my favorite poems, and yet a poem that is rarely ever noted or analyzed is Alexander Pushkin's 'To the Sea' (perhaps it loses much in translation, but here goes anyway):

TO THE SEA

Farewell to you, unharnessed Ocean!
No longer will you roll at me
Your azure swells in endless motion
Or gleam in tranquil majesty.

A comrade's broken words on leaving,
His hail of parting at the door:
Your chant of luring, chant of grieving
Will murmur in my ears no more.

Oh, homeland of my spirit's choosing!
How often on your banks at large
I wandered mute and dimly musing,
Fraught with a sacred, troubling charge!

How I would love your deep resounding,
The primal chasm's muffled voice,
How in your vesper calm rejoice,
And in your sudden, reckless bounding!

The fisher's lowly canvas slips,
By your capricious favor sheltered,
Undaunted down your breakers' lips:
Yet by your titan romps have weltered
And foundered droves of masted ships.

Alas, Fate thwarted me from weighing
My anchor off the cloddish shore,
Exultantly your realm surveying,
And by your drifting ridges laying
My poet's course forevermore.

You waited, called... I was in irons,
And vainly did my soul rebel,
Becalmed in those uncouth environs
By passion's overpowering spell.

Yet why this sorrow? Toward what fastness
Would now my carefree sails be spread?
To one lone goal in all your vastness
My spirit might have gladly sped.

One lonely cliff, the tomb of glory...
There chilling slumber fell upon
The ghost of mankind's proudest story:
There breathed his last Napoleon.

There rest for suffering he bartered;
And, gale-borne in his wake, there streams
Another kingly spirit martyred,
Another regent of our dreams.

He passed, and left to Freedom mourning,
His laurels to Eternity.
Arise, roar out in stormy warning:
He was your own true bard, oh Sea!

His soul was by your spirit haunted,
In your own image was he framed:
Like you immense, profound, undaunted,
Like you nocturnal untamed.

Bereft the world... where by your power,
Oh Sea would you now carry me?
Life offers everywhere one dower:
On any glint of bliss there glower
Enlightenment or tyranny.

Farewell then, Sea! Henceforth in wonder
Your regal grace will I rever;
Long will your muffled twilit thunder
Reverberate within my ear.

To woods and silent wildernesses
Will I translate your potent spells,
Your cliffs, your coves, your shining tresses,
Your shadows and your murmurous swells.

The wonder of this poet at max. I don't know Russian, so I cannot tell much about the translation, but it certainly expresses this poet's ability to let himself be carried to all shores by the sea of vastness. Very meaningful to me.

Oh what a great thread. I just discovered this Muse. I had to include this as I am a Newfoundlander.

I will read it all soon.



"Squid Jiggin' Ground"


Oh this is the place where the fishermen gather

Oil-skins and boots and the Cape hands batten down;

All sizes of figures with squid lines and jiggers,

They congregate here on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


Some are workin' their jiggers, while others are yarnin',

There's some standin' up and there's more lyin' down;

While all kinds of fun, jokes and drinks are begun,

As they wait for the squid on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


There's men of all ages and boys in the bargain,

There's old Billy Cave and there's young Raymond Brown;

There's Rip, Red and Gory out here in the dory,

A runnin' down squires on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


There's men from the harbor, there's men from the tickle,

And all kinds of motor-boats, green, gray and brown;

Right yonder is Bobby and with him is Nobby,

He's chawin' hard tack on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


God bless my soul, list to, there's Skipper John Champy,

He's the best hand at squid jiggin' here, I'll be bound;

Hello, what's the row? Why he's jiggin' one now,

The very first squid on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.




The man with the whiskers is old Jacob Steele,

He's gettin' well on, but he's still pretty sound;

While Uncle Bob Hockins wears six pairs of stockin's

Whenever he's out on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


Holy Smoke! What a scuffle! All hands are excited,

It's a wonder to me that there's nobody drowned;

There's a bustle, confusion, the wonderful hustle,

They're all jiggin' squid on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


Says Barney, "The squids are on top of the water,

I just felt me jiggers jig five fathoms down

But a squid in the boat squirted right down his throat,

Now he's swearin'like mad on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


There's poor Uncle Louie, his whiskers are spattered

With spots of the squid juice that's flyin' around;

One poor little guy got it right in the eye,

But they don't give a darn on the Squid Jiggin' Ground.


Now, if you ever feel inclined to go squiddin',

Leave your white clothes behind in the town;

And if you get cranky without your silk hanky,

You'd better steer clear of the Squid Jiggin' Ground

Oh, the author of that was Art Scammel (spelling?) at the age of 15.