Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse - Joseph Crosby Lincoln

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That music was wont to be!

       And the night-wind through the tree

       Was a perfumed breath that told

       Of the spicy gales that filled the sails

       Where the tropic billows rolled

       And the rovers hid their gold

       By the lone palm on the key—

       But the whispering wave their secret gave

       In the mystical song of the Sea.

       Oh, the song of the Sea—

       The beautiful song of the Sea!

       The mighty note from the ocean's throat,

       The laugh of the wind in glee!

       And swift as the ripples flee

       With the surges down the shore,

       It bears me back, o'er life's long track,

       To home and its love once more.

       I stand at the open door,

       Dear mother, again with thee,

       And hear afar on the booming bar

       The beautiful song of the Sea.

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      Oh, the wild November wind,

       How it blew!

       How the dead leaves rasped and rustled,

       Soared and sank and buzzed and bustled

       As they flew;

       While above the empty square,

       Seeming skeletons in air,

       Battered branches, brown and bare,

       Gauntly grinned;

       And the frightened dust-clouds, flying.

       Heard the calling and the crying

       Of the wind—

       The wild November wind.

       Oh, the wild November wind,

       How it screamed!

       How it moaned and mocked and muttered

       At the cottage window, shuttered,

       Whence there streamed

       Fitful flecks of firelight mild:

       And within, a mother smiled,

       Singing softly to her child

       As there dinned

       Round the gabled roof and rafter

       Long and loud the shout and laughter

       Of the wind—

       The wild November wind.

       Oh, the wild November wind,

       How it rang

       Through the rigging of a vessel

       Rocking where the great waves wrestle!

       And it sang,

       Light and low, that mother's song;

       And the master, staunch and strong,

       Heard the sweet strain drift along—

       Softened, thinned—

       Heard the tightened cordage ringing

       Till it seemed a loved voice singing

       In the wind—

       The wild November wind.

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      (Dedicated to the Men in the United States Life-saving Service.) When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters, When the rollers are a-poundin' on the shore, When the mariner's a-thinkin' of his wife and sons and daughters, And the little home he'll, maybe, see no more; When the bars are white and yeasty and the shoals are all a-frothin', When the wild no'theaster's cuttin' like a knife; Through the seethin' roar and screech he's patrollin' on the beach— The Gov'ment's hired man fer savin' life. He's strugglin' with the gusts that strike and bruise him like a hammer, He's fightin' sand that stings like swarmin' bees, He's list'nin' through the whirlwind and the thunder and the clamor— A-list'nin' fer the signal from the seas; He's breakin' ribs and muscles launchin' life-boats in the surges, He's drippin' wet and chilled in every bone, He's bringin' men from death back ter flesh and blood and breath, And he never stops ter think about his own; He's a-pullin' at an oar that is freezin' to his fingers, He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck, He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers, But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck: He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers— The kind of job a common chap would shirk— But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave, And he thinks it's all included in his work.

      He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker,

       And he's good at every one of 'em the same:

       And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker,

       And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name.

       He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester",

       He's as plucky as they make, or ever can;

       He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head,

       And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man.

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      When the hot summer daylight is dyin',

       And the mist through the valley has rolled,

       And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard

       Are purple with trimmings of gold—

       Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky,

       The crickets chirp out from each nook,

       And the frogs with their voices so husky

       Jine in from the marsh and the brook.

       The chorus grows louder and deeper,

       An owl sends a hoot from the hill,

       The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling

       A whippoorwill calls by the mill.

       Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin'

       The breeze scatters sweets on the night,

       Like incense the evenin' perfumin',

       With fireflies fer candles alight.

       And the noise of the frogs and the crickets

       And the birds and the breeze are ter me

       Lots better than high-toned supraners,

       Although they don't get to "high C";

       And the church, with its grand painted skylight,

       Seems cramped and forbiddin' and grim

       'Side of my old front porch in the twilight

       When God's choir sings its "Evenin' Hymn."

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