Post by Administrator on Sept 4, 2017 15:17:18 GMT
CAPE HORN - THE VOYAGE OF THE FLORENCE
I love to hear of windjammers sailing round the Horn
Of iron men and wooden ships, billowed canvas worn
The roaring of the Forties, hardened bucko mates
Of flying fish, albacore, and salt beef on the plates.
One ship was the Florence - an ocean going hound
Thirty men aboard her, San Francisco bound
This old but sturdy vessel cast off on the tide
Coal was loaded earlier from further up the Clyde.
Swaying on the footropes an A.B. took a clout
Stretching for the canvas when it bellowed out
Falling from the jack stay when struck by threshing sails
Dead before the water, he hit top-gallant rails.
They couldn't go to find him by launching of a boat
For the chances of retrieval were risky and remote
The hands were getting weary now and longing for the shore
Work was very tedious and plenty more in store.
“Just think a bit” I says to me, to check upon a notion
Of what it meant to deep-sea men a long time on the ocean
Subject to a discipline hard to find ashore
Rations poor and meagre but always wanting more.
Rusty red fresh water sloshing in the tanks
Portioned was the last of it - so thirsty in the ranks
Discussions turned to fisticuffs while captive there at sea
The breaking of monotony seeks different scenery.
A Yankee silver dollar hammered to the mast
The prize for any lookout that spied the land at last
A good excuse to lay aloft to rest the salt cased brain
Raising of the spirits and easing of the pain.
Till a shout of “fire” went up - the cargo was alight
Finding it deep seated, smouldering day and night
Soon was made a landfall just thirty miles away
From their destination in foggy Frisco bay.
Swaying on the footropes an A.B. took a clout
Stretching for the canvas when it bellowed out
Falling from the jack stay when struck by threshing sails
Dead before the water, he hit top-gallant rails.
They couldn't go to find him by launching of a boat
For the chances of retrieval were risky and remote
The hands were getting weary now and longing for the shore
Work was very tedious and plenty more in store.
“Just think a bit” I says to me, to check upon a notion
Of what it meant to deep-sea men a long time on the ocean
Subject to a discipline hard to find ashore
Rations poor and meagre but always wanting more.
Rusty red fresh water sloshing in the tanks
Portioned was the last of it - so thirsty in the ranks
Discussions turned to fisticuffs while captive there at sea
The breaking of monotony seeks different scenery.
A Yankee silver dollar hammered to the mast
The prize for any lookout that spied the land at last
A good excuse to lay aloft to rest the salt cased brain
Raising of the spirits and easing of the pain.
Till a shout of “fire” went up - the cargo was alight
Finding it deep seated, smouldering day and night
Soon was made a landfall just thirty miles away
From their destination in foggy Frisco bay.
The fire was doused while anchored, then a berth secured
Among the many sailing ships that hove in from abroad
There in San Francisco, that place of booze an pimps
Several crew were lost to drink and hijacked by the crimps.
Cargo was discharged there and holds cleaned up for grain
Port Costa was the loading berth then set off home again
“All’s well” seamen shout as sailing to the south
Heading for the Horn again and the Roaring forties mouth.
Wind stubborn from the north west it blew a howling gale
Hot footing then before it with just a foretop sail
Wings enough for the strength of it now blowing up a storm
Not one could stand on the reeling hull, damage was the norm.
Then a lull and fog came in, the Florence struck the ice
Bowsprit smashed and hull stove in - happened in a trice
Making best they could of it by the sun’s dim light
Set a course to Falklands’ Isle to put the damage right.
Hiring men and riveters the Florence then made good
Spars culled from a previous wreck fashioned there from wood
The hulk of Brunel’s Great Britain beached across the bay
Part of Stanley’s scenery before they sailed away.
The doldrums brought the blazing sun though sometimes it rained
Ten days of calm or few light airs, nothing much was gained
“More blooming days, more dollars” one of the seamen grinned
Small comfort to the Old Man who whistled for the wind.
Later on they made their way, vessel running free
Approaching then the Cornish coast and a greying sea
Through the wreaths of fog, lookouts at their posts
Falmouth bound for orders further round the coast.
Provisioned once again then sent to Ireland’s shore
Discharging port was Sligo then swept the holds once more
Eventually in Glasgow, hands required their pay
For their work on Florence, while sixteen months away.
For the ancient mariner now watchman on the ship
A time of calm nostalgia - afore she sails next trip
The main mast and the rigging are quiet among the spars
Until she comes to life again and rolls them at the stars.
Joe Earl
I love to hear of windjammers sailing round the Horn
Of iron men and wooden ships, billowed canvas worn
The roaring of the Forties, hardened bucko mates
Of flying fish, albacore, and salt beef on the plates.
One ship was the Florence - an ocean going hound
Thirty men aboard her, San Francisco bound
This old but sturdy vessel cast off on the tide
Coal was loaded earlier from further up the Clyde.
Swaying on the footropes an A.B. took a clout
Stretching for the canvas when it bellowed out
Falling from the jack stay when struck by threshing sails
Dead before the water, he hit top-gallant rails.
They couldn't go to find him by launching of a boat
For the chances of retrieval were risky and remote
The hands were getting weary now and longing for the shore
Work was very tedious and plenty more in store.
“Just think a bit” I says to me, to check upon a notion
Of what it meant to deep-sea men a long time on the ocean
Subject to a discipline hard to find ashore
Rations poor and meagre but always wanting more.
Rusty red fresh water sloshing in the tanks
Portioned was the last of it - so thirsty in the ranks
Discussions turned to fisticuffs while captive there at sea
The breaking of monotony seeks different scenery.
A Yankee silver dollar hammered to the mast
The prize for any lookout that spied the land at last
A good excuse to lay aloft to rest the salt cased brain
Raising of the spirits and easing of the pain.
Till a shout of “fire” went up - the cargo was alight
Finding it deep seated, smouldering day and night
Soon was made a landfall just thirty miles away
From their destination in foggy Frisco bay.
Swaying on the footropes an A.B. took a clout
Stretching for the canvas when it bellowed out
Falling from the jack stay when struck by threshing sails
Dead before the water, he hit top-gallant rails.
They couldn't go to find him by launching of a boat
For the chances of retrieval were risky and remote
The hands were getting weary now and longing for the shore
Work was very tedious and plenty more in store.
“Just think a bit” I says to me, to check upon a notion
Of what it meant to deep-sea men a long time on the ocean
Subject to a discipline hard to find ashore
Rations poor and meagre but always wanting more.
Rusty red fresh water sloshing in the tanks
Portioned was the last of it - so thirsty in the ranks
Discussions turned to fisticuffs while captive there at sea
The breaking of monotony seeks different scenery.
A Yankee silver dollar hammered to the mast
The prize for any lookout that spied the land at last
A good excuse to lay aloft to rest the salt cased brain
Raising of the spirits and easing of the pain.
Till a shout of “fire” went up - the cargo was alight
Finding it deep seated, smouldering day and night
Soon was made a landfall just thirty miles away
From their destination in foggy Frisco bay.
The fire was doused while anchored, then a berth secured
Among the many sailing ships that hove in from abroad
There in San Francisco, that place of booze an pimps
Several crew were lost to drink and hijacked by the crimps.
Cargo was discharged there and holds cleaned up for grain
Port Costa was the loading berth then set off home again
“All’s well” seamen shout as sailing to the south
Heading for the Horn again and the Roaring forties mouth.
Wind stubborn from the north west it blew a howling gale
Hot footing then before it with just a foretop sail
Wings enough for the strength of it now blowing up a storm
Not one could stand on the reeling hull, damage was the norm.
Then a lull and fog came in, the Florence struck the ice
Bowsprit smashed and hull stove in - happened in a trice
Making best they could of it by the sun’s dim light
Set a course to Falklands’ Isle to put the damage right.
Hiring men and riveters the Florence then made good
Spars culled from a previous wreck fashioned there from wood
The hulk of Brunel’s Great Britain beached across the bay
Part of Stanley’s scenery before they sailed away.
The doldrums brought the blazing sun though sometimes it rained
Ten days of calm or few light airs, nothing much was gained
“More blooming days, more dollars” one of the seamen grinned
Small comfort to the Old Man who whistled for the wind.
Later on they made their way, vessel running free
Approaching then the Cornish coast and a greying sea
Through the wreaths of fog, lookouts at their posts
Falmouth bound for orders further round the coast.
Provisioned once again then sent to Ireland’s shore
Discharging port was Sligo then swept the holds once more
Eventually in Glasgow, hands required their pay
For their work on Florence, while sixteen months away.
For the ancient mariner now watchman on the ship
A time of calm nostalgia - afore she sails next trip
The main mast and the rigging are quiet among the spars
Until she comes to life again and rolls them at the stars.
Joe Earl