Over the mounting waves so 'igh,
We'll sail together, my boy and I-I,
We'll sail together, my bo-oy and I!
"Have 'ee wrote to George?" Tony asked.
"'Tis your place to du that."
"I an't got time...."
"Thee asn't got time for nort!"
The fisher's is a merry life!
Blow, winds, blow!
The fisher and his vitty wife!
Row, boys, row!
He drives no plough on stubborn land,
His fruits are ready to his hand.
No nipping frosts his orchards fear,
He has his autumn all the year,
Blow, winds, blow!
The farmer has his rent to pay,
Blow, winds, blow!
And seeds to purchase every day,
Row, boys, row!
But he who farms the rolling deep,
He never sows, can always reap,
The ocean's fields are fair and free,
There ain't no rent days on the sea;
The fisher's is a merry life!
Blow, winds, blow!
Blow, damn ye, blow!
"Aye!" said Tony with conviction, "thic's one side o'it."
[Sidenote: "_ROLLING HOME_"]
He tried a note or two at different pitches, then struck with energy
into the fine song, "Rolling Home." (Who that has steered for England
in a ship--and by ship I do not mean a bustling steam-packet or a
floating hotel, but a ship to whose crew England stands for fresh food,
women, wine, home.... Who that has so steered the course for England,
does not feel a catch at his vitals on hearing the melody, at once
plaintive and triumphant, of "Rolling Home?")
Pipe all hands to man the capstan, see your cables run down clear;
Soon our ship will weigh her anchor, for old England's shores we steer;
If we heave round with a will boys, soon our anchor it will trip,
And across the briny ocean we will steer our gallant ship:
Rolling home, rolling home!
Rolling home across the sea!
Rolling home to Merrie England!
Rolling home, true love, to thee!
Man the bars then with a will, boys, clap all hands that can clap on;
As we heave around the capstan, we will sing this well-known song;
It will bring back scenes and changes of this parting gift so rare;
We shall hear sweet songs of music softly whispering through the air.
Rolling home, rolling home!
Rolling home across the sea!
Rolling home to Merrie England!
Rolling home, true love, to thee!
Up aloft amid the rigging, as we sail the waters blue,
Whilst we cross the briny ocean, we will always think of you;
We will leave you our best wishes as we leave this rocky shore;
We are bound for Merrie England, to return to you no more!
Rolling home, rolling home!
Rolling home, across the sea!
Rolling home to Merrie England!
Rolling home, my love to thee!
To Mrs Widger's great disgust, Tony has been learning _in bed_ the
correct words (he knew the tune) of "Gay Spanish Ladies." That he gave
us as a finale.
Farewell and adieu to you, gay Spanish Ladies.
Farewell and adieu to you, Ladies of Spain!
For we've received orders for to sail for old England.
But we hope in a short time to see you again.
We'll rant and we'll roar like true British heroes,
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England.
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues....
How we did rant and roar the wonderful up-Channel verse, with its
clever use of the high-sounding promontories of the south!
The first land we made, it was called the Deadman,
Next Ram Head off Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight,
We passed up by Beachy, by Parley and Dungeness,
And hove our ship to off the South Foreland light....
Our glasses were empty. We drove out the cat, gutted some fish,
extinguished the lamp, and came upstairs to the tune, repeated, of
"Rolling Home." All the tunes are ringing in my head.
[Sidenote: _ART THAT IS LIVED_]
There is something about this singing of sea-songs by a seafarer which
makes them grip one extraordinarily. They are far from perfect in
execution, they are not always quite in tune, especially on Tony's high
notes, yet, I am certain, they are as artistic in the best sense as any
of the fine music I have heard. Tony sings with imagination: he sees,
_lives_ what he is singing. Between this sort of song and most, there
is much the same difference as between going abroad, and reading a book
of travels; or between singing folk-songs with the folk and twittering
bowdlerised versions in a drawing-room. However imperfect technically,
Tony's songs are an expression of the life he lives, rather than an
excursion into the realms of art--into the expression of other kinds of
life--with temporarily stimulated and projected imagination. His art is
perpetual creation, not repetition of a thing created once and for all.
The art that is _lived_, howsoever imperfect, has an advantage over
the most finished art that is merely repeated. Next after the music of,
as one might say, superhuman creative force--like Bach's and
Beethoven's--comes this kind, of Tony's.
Cultured people talk about the artistic tastes of the poor, would have
them read--well, they don't quite know what--something 'good,'
something namely that appeals to the cultured. It has always been my
experience in much lending of books, that the poor will read the
literature of life's fundamental daily realities quickly enough, once
they know of its existence. What they will not read, what in the
struggle for existence they cannot waste time over, is the literature
of the _etceteras_ of life, the decorations, the vapourings. Sane
minds, like healthy bodies, crave strong meats, and the strong meats of
literature are usually the worst cooked. I am inclined to think that
the taste of the poor, the uneducated, is on the right lines, though
undeveloped, whilst the taste of the educated consists of beautifully
developed wrongness, an exquisite secession from reality. As Nietzsche
pointed out, degenerates love narcotics; something to make them forget
life, not face it. Their meats must be strange and peptonized.
Therefore they hate, they are afraid of, the greatest things in
life--the commonplace. Much culture has debilitated them. Rank life
would kill them--or save them.