Sea-Songs by John Masefield

Author of "Salt Water Ballads," and "A Mainsail Haul."

Temple Bar Vols 1 and 2, 1906, pp. 56-80

The sea-songs in general use in merchant ships are of two kinds. There is the working-song, or chanty, which is sung as an aid to labour during the performance of certain tasks. And there is the sea-ballad, or sailor's folk-song, which, at sea, is sung in the second dog-watch; and in port, at night, after supper. Ashore, where those wants do not exist, there is nothing quite like them. At sea, where those wants are ever present, they are of every nationality, but it is thought that they are most common in American, and rarest in French ships. The most beautiful chanty I have ever heard was sung by a Norwegian crew. I have heard two Greek chanties of great beauty, and I am told that the Russians have at least one as beautiful as any of our own. In this article I must confine myself to those commonly sung aboard the merchant ships of these islands.

The word chanty is pronounced like shanty. It is applied to all those songs and choruses to which, in times of stress, or on gay occasions, the sailor works and hauls. There are several kinds of chanty, each peculiarly fitted to some variety of sea-labour. There is the anchor or capstan chanty, sung when the hands are heaving round the capstan, weighing anchor, or warping, or hoisting heavy yards. There is the halliard-chanty, sung when the topsail or topgallant yards are being hoisted by pully-hauly or strength of arm. There is the sheet, tack, and bowline chanty, sung when sheets are being hauled aft, or tacks boarded, or bowlines tautened. There is the pumping chanty, now, fortunately, little heard, since iron ships do not leak. There is the runaway chorus, sung on those rare occasions when the crew can race along the deck with the rope at which they are hauling. And, lastly, there is the Fo'c's'le Grace, or Pier Head Thanksgiving, which is sung over the junk at dinner.

Of these five varieties, the three most commonly heard, the anchor, halliard, and sheet varieties, consist of a solo part sung by a leading seaman, and a chorus sung by the rest of the watch. The fifth, or runaway variety, is sung by all hands; though at one time, no doubt, it, too, was similarly divided. The last kind is sung or said by the high priest of the forecastle, some elderly seaman disgusted with the ship's food. The others join in at the end with the concluding Amen. In singing at the pumps the words used are generally those of a halliard chanty, arranged, like all such, for a solo part and a chorus.

The anchor, or capstan chanty, is the most beautiful kind of chanty we have. It generally begins with a single line, sung by the soloist, or chanty man, and followed by a short chorus. The men heaving round at the bars begin to sing their chorus before the soloist has ended his line. Before the chorus is at an end, the soloist begins to repeat his line; for every line of the solo is sung at least twice, so that the improvisatore may have time to compose his ditty. When the repetition of the solo is almost over, the chorus breaks in again, with a rather longer and more moving music, at the end of which the soloist goes on with his song. There is therefore a line of solo, followed by a short chorus, and a repetition of the solo, followed by a longer chorus. The soloist is invariably a man of some authority among the crew. The mate of the watch, if he be musical, and have a good voice, will sometimes strike up the chanty; but more frequently the chanty man is one of the leading seamen, a strong man, a power in the fo'c's'le. If a young or weak sailor presumes to pipe up with a song the others will often refuse to sing, until an authoritative voice puts the youth to silence.

Sailors seldom work at a capstan unless they are entering or leaving port, or doing some job of more than usual difficulty. At sea, after foul weather, when the sun is bright, and the clouds are flying past, and the green seas are glittering as they topple, the sailors sometimes find the topsail yards too heavy for them. The sails are loose aloft, and thrash and slat, with a great clack of flogging gear, and the green seas rise and race, as the watch tallies on to the halliards. The decks are still wet and slimy, and the spray, like white fire, is still flying over the rail. The turns are cast off, and the hands begin to sway upon the rope, "Oh, bunt him, boys," cries the mate or boatswain, "Oho, Jew," " Oh, rise him high" - Yet the yard will not budge; there may be ice in the blocks, or the men may be overworn. The halliards are taken to the deck capstan, and the bars are shipped. A boy seizes the halliard-end, and prepares to haul in on the slack. "Heave now," cries the mate. "Heave now; heave and pawl." The men heave with a will. The little iron pawls, or patent catches, which keep the capstan from revolving in the wrong direction, begin to click and clatter, as they pass over their sprockets. The rope creaks and grunts as the strain comes upon it, and the yard very slowly begins to move up the mast. "Start a song there, one of you," says the mate, "you're heaving still, like a lot of soldiers." Then someone, as he heaves, pipes up a capstan chanty, and the rest join in. The work goes the merrier for it; the yard travels to the mast-head in a few minutes; and the watch are sorry when the bars are unshipped. There are many capstan chanties, many of them very beautiful. The words are generally nonsense, or worse. One can take no pleasure in any of them for their literary merit. But the music is often of great beauty. One of the best, and most popular, capstan chanties is that known as "Sebastopol." The words are, if anything, rather better than most. The tune is excellent and stirring. It moves to quicker time than most capstan chanties.

The Chantyman. The sailors. The Chantyman. The Sailors

The Crimee war is over now.   Sebastopol is taken. The Crimee war is over now.   Sebastopol is taken.

So sing, Cheer, boys, cheer,   Sebastopol is taken: And sing, Cheer, boys, cheer   Old England gained the day.

The Chantyman. The Sailors. The Chantyman. The Sailors

The Rooshans they was put to fly   Sebastopol is taken. The Rooshans they was put to fly.   Sebastopol is taken.

 

Another beautiful capstan chanty is "The Maid of Amsterdam" The words of the solo are scarcely fitted for quotation, but those who wish to know what they are like may consult Thomas Heywood's play of "Valentinian," where a song almost identical, is given at length. The tune of this chanty is singularly fine, but I am told that it is almost certainly more modern than the words sung to it.

The Chantyman. The Sailors. The Chantyman.   The Sailors

In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid. Mark well what I do say. In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid, In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid. And I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid. A-roving, a-roving, Since roving's been my ru-i-n, I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid.

No chanties are sung with such a gusto as those with which the crew get their anchors on leaving port for home. When all the hatches are on, and covered with tarpaulin; when the sails are all bent, and the house-flag slats at the truck, and the ensign, a stream of scarlet, flies astern; it is then that the sailors burst out a-singing in their best style. In many foreign ports, it is the custom to cheer the homeward bound ship as she gets her anchor. Each ship in port sends a man, or two men, to help in the work of heaving in, and making sail. As the anchor comes home, each ship cheers her, in turn, as a sort of sea-farewell, and wishing of God-speed. The ship so cheered replies to each greeting with a single cheer. It is fine, on such an occasion, to be at the capstan, on the forecastle-head, making one of a chorus. The noise of the cheering comes over the water very pleasantly. The sight of so many ships' companies, standing on the fife rails, waving their hats as they shout, is stirring and salutary. If, at such a time, one is aloft, loosing the casting sails, one notices a strange thing. All the bass voices seem to get together upon a single capstan bar, and all the other voices group together in the same way; and the effect, as the men heave round, is very curious. I remember a barque sailing for home from one of the Western ports. I was aboard her, doing some work, I forget exactly what, just below the fore-rigging, and the effect of these differing voices, now drawing near and ringing out, then passing by, and changing, and fading, was one of strange beauty. It was beautiful as much for its stately rhythm as for its music. It was like watching some beautiful dance in which the dancers sang as they moved slowly.  The song they were singing was the old, haunting pathetic chanty of the Rio Grande. As it was sung that sunny morning, under the hills to the sound of the surf and the cheering sailors its poor ballad took to itself the nobility of great poetry. One remembered it, as a supremely lovely thing, in which one was fortunate to have taken a part.

The Chantyman: Where are you going, my pretty maid?
    Tbe Sailors: Oh, away to Rio.
The Chantyman: Where are you going, my pretty maid?
    Tbe Sailors: Oh, we're bound to the Rio Grande

Chorus: Oh, away to Rio,
Oh away to Rio;
Oh fare you well, my bonny young girl,
For we're bound to the Rio Grande

The Chantyman: Have you a sweetheart, my pretty maid?
    Tbe Sailors: Oh, away to Rio.
The Chantyman: Have you a sweetheart, my pretty maid?
    Tbe Sailors: Oh, we're bound to the Rio Grande Oh, away to Rio, etc.

The halliard chanties, like those for the capstan, have all a repeated solo part, followed by choruses. In the capstan chanties the second chorus is generally longer than the first. In the halliard chanties each chorus is of the same length. They are more frequently heard than the other varieties of chanty, for the work to which they are suited has often to be done. It has been said .that "a song is ten men on the rope." It is strange that a song should have so much effect; but no one, who has been at sea, can deny that it puts a spirit into the men, and helps them to do work otherwise beyond them. Day after day, in the Cape Horn cold, with the decks awash, and the seas heaving up into a dingy sky, the worn-out men gather at the halliards, to make sail after a storm. The icy ropes are stretched along; the canvas slats up aloft, and the monotonous crying out begins, with the yard jolting, and the sheets clacking on the masts. The men fall back heavily, but the yard seems jammed, and the parrel rises no further. Then some old man, in glistening oilskins, with a quid in his cheek, cries out his tuneless nonsense:

"A long, long time, and a long time ago."

Perhaps at his first crying out no one will join in, and the old man will begin again. Then with a shout the hands take up the chorus. New life comes to them. Each man puts new strength into his haul. The great yellow yard goes jolting up to the masthead, with the sail flying over it. It is as though a spirit of song had verily entered into every sailor.

The Chantyman: A long, long time, and a long time ago.
    Tbe Sailors: To me way hay Oh-hi-o.
The Chantyman: A long, long time, and a long time ago.
    Tbe Sailors: A long time ago.
The Chantyman: A smart Yankee packet lay out in the bay.
    Tbe Sailors: To me way hay Oh-hi-o.
The Chantyman: A smart Yankee packet lay out in the bay.
    Tbe Sailors: A long time ago.
The Chantyman: A-waiting for a fair wind to get under way.
    Tbe Sailors: To me way hay Oh-hi-o.
The Chantyman: A-waiting for a fair wind to get under way.
    Tbe Sailors: A long time ago.
The Chantyman: With all her poor sailors all sick and all sore.
    Tbe Sailors: To me way hay Oh-hi-o.
The Chantyman: With all her poor sailors all sick and all sore.
    Tbe Sailors: A long time ago.
The Chantyman: For they'd drunk all their whisky, and could get no more. Etc., etc.

The seamen make their hauls on those words of the chorus which have been italicised.

Some ten years ago that was the most popular of all the chanties, but the fashion changes, and it may have given place to another. In a sailor's repertory there are many chanties, which are seldom heard. The men grow tired of the old words and the old music, and do not work so lustily to them. The well-known "Whisky, Johnny," has become a burden, from its frequent repetition. As the old songs die out, new songs are made, or, it may be, yet older songs regain their popularity. I knew a Danish sailor who passed his spare moments in inventing chanties. He had one half-finished specimen of which he was very proud. It may have been perfected since I knew him, and perhaps it is now well known "from Callao to Rio, by the west." It was not a literary chanty, nor was the tune very remarkable. It ran as follows:

The Chantyman: Oho, why don't you blow?
Chorus: A, ha, come roll him over.
The Chantyman: Oho, why don't you blow?
Chorus: A, ha, come roll him over.  

"Whisky, Johnny," one of the best known of all chanties, is worthy of a place in this article. I first heard it in the Bristol Channel, off Bull Point, with the Shutter Light glimmering in the distance. I was reeling about in the waist, deathly sea-sick, carrying an order to the mate. They were setting the fore upper topsail, and one very drunk sailor was singing the solo.

The Chantyman: Oh, whisky is the life of man!
    Tbe Sailors: Whisky! Johnny!
The Chantyman: Oh, whisky is the life of man!
    Tbe Sailors: Whisky for my Johnny.
The Chantyman: I drink it out of an old tin can.
    Tbe Sailors: Whisky ! Johnny !
The Chantyman: I drink it out of an old tin can.
    Tbe Sailors: Whisky for my Johnny.

The song goes on to celebrate the virtues of whisky, and to describe its effects on the singer's relatives. It then tells a story about a man, a fisherman, three live lobsters and a lady but the story is hardly worth repetition, and there are other reasons why it should not printed. Another excellent halliard chanty, very popular among sailors, is "Blow, Bullies, Blow." A good chantyman, in singing this song, will often contrive to satirise the officers of the ship, in language as direct as it is forcible. If the old man, or one of the mates, be unpopular, the lampoon will be shouted with gusto, so that it may reach aft, amid the jeers of the singers.

  The Chantyman: There's a Black Ball barque a-coming down the river.
    Tbe Sailors: Blow, bullies, blow.
The Chantyman: There's a Black Ball barque a-coming down the river.
    Tbe Sailors: Blow, my bully boys, blow.
The Chantyman: And who do you think is captain of her?
Chorus as before
The Chantyman: Why, little .... the ....
    Tbe Sailors: Blow, my bully boys, blow.

I have heard a discontented ship's crew singing this chanty to the scandal of all who lived aft. The chantyman picked out the weak points, physical and moral, of the old man and his mates. His touch was light and certain.  

All of the halliard chanties quoted above are sung to quick time, so that the work may be done quickly. There is, however, one melancholy song, never sung save on grave occasions, which goes to a slow movement. I heard it once off the Horn, one dismal morning, when the sodden watch were hoisting the main topsail. It had been blowing hard for a week, but the wind had at last died down, and we were making sail. A heavy sea was running. It was so cold that the water which came aboard was slushy with ice. The day was a typical Cape Horn day, grim and lowering, It was under these conditions that I first heard the song. I have always thought that it expressed perfectly, in its melancholy, wavering music, the grey sea, with its mournful birds, and wind in the rigging, and the disconsolate seamen on the rope.

The Chantyman: They call me Hanging Johnny.
    Tbe Sailors: Away-i-oh.
The Chantyman: They call me Hanging Johnny.
    Tbe Sailors: So hang, boys, hang.
The Chantyman: First I hung my mother.
    Tbe Sailors: Away-i-oh.
The Chantyman: First I hung my mother.
    Tbe Sailors: So hang, boys, hang.

The sheet, tack, and bowline chanty is perhaps heard less frequently than the two varieties already mentioned. It is generally a leisurely song, slow in coming to the point, and of no great beauty. The best known song of this kind is very old. It was heard aboard a Dover trader during the reign of Henry VIII. It may be several centuries older.

The Chantyman: Haul on the bowline, early in the morning.
    Tbe Sailors: Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul.
The Chantyman: Haul on the bowline, the kettle is a-boiling.
    Tbe Sailors: Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul.
The Chantyman: Haul on the bowline, the fore and main-top bowline.
    Tbe Sailor: Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul

Another excellent song of this kind is the following, which goes to a tune as little tuneful, and perhaps as ancient.

The chantymanLouis was the King of France afore the Revolu-ti-on,
The sailorsAway, haul away, boys, haul away together.
The chantymanBut Louis got his head cut off which spoiled his consti-tu-tion.
The sailorsAway, haul away, boys, haul away, Oh

The runaway chorus is not often heard, for sailing ships are so weakly manned that it is unusual for any job to be done easily aboard them. It is sung sometimes when tacking ship in fair weather. The men gathered at the main and crossjack braces sing it, as the yards are swung, at the orders "Crossjack yard," and "Main topsail haul." The yards fly about, and come home on the lee shrouds with a crash. The men race away with the braces singing:

 

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
Early in the morning.

Way, hay, there she rises,
Way, hay, there she rises,
Oh, boy, there she rises,
Early in the morning.

Chuck him in the long boat till he gets sober,
Chuck him in the long boat till he gets sober,
Chuck him in the long boat till he gets sober,
Early in the morning.

Way, hay, there she rises,
Way, hay, there she rises,
Way, hay, there she rises,
Early in the morning.

There are other verses, but the work is so quickly finished that there is seldom time for them.  

There is another variety of runaway chorus, sung by all hands when hauling in hand over hand, as when getting a hawser aboard. It is not quite so stirring a song as "What shall we do?" but it is lively and merry.

A handy ship and a handy crew,
     Handy, my boys, so handy;
A handy skipper and second mate too,
     Oh handy, my boys, away, Oh.

The rest, if more be wanted, can he made up by the singer, for the least literary person can generally produce a catalogue of nouns to label handy. The second and fourth lines remain the same throughout.

 

I have never heard a pumping chanty, though I have passed in all from a week to ten days of my life, from 170 to 240 hours, in pumping water out of a leaky wooden ship. I am told that the usual pumping chanty is the halliard chanty of "Leave her, Johnny, leave her," one of the most excellent of all chanties:

ChanteymanI thought I heard the skipper say,
    Sailors Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
ChanteymanYou may go ashore and touch your pay.
    Sailors It's time for us to leave her.
ChanteymanWe'll go ashore and touch our chink,
    Sailors Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
ChanteymanBefore we go we'll have a drink.
    Sailors It's time for us to leave her.

 

The Pier Head Grace is not often heard in these days, perhaps because our sailing ships are generally manned by Scandinavians. It may be heard aboard American ships, but rarely, for American seamen are better fed than the English, and have therefore less cause for growling at the food. I have heard an old English sailor repeat the following version, as he bowed over the mess-kid containing the salt beef.

First Sailor (in a dismal tone - solo):Old horse! Old horse! what brought you here?
    Groaning chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
Solo:To make poor sailors curse and swear?
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
First sailor (recitative):I was a Government contractor's hack
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
Solo:From Botany Bay to Hackmatack
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
Solo:And when through want and sore abuse
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
Solo:I died! I died! I died!
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!
Solo:They cut me up for sailor's use.
    Chorus:Oho! Oho! Oho!

The songs sung in the sing-songs, or sailors' concerts, have lost much of their distinction. The old sea-songs, proper to the sea, have given place, to a great extent, to the peculiar lyrical mechanics of the music-hall. The old songs may still be heard, but they are dying out, for the sailor has lost much of his individuality. The English sailor is generally to be found in steamships, making short passages. He is no longer cut off from his fellow-men for many months at a time. His arts have become more and more the arts of the landsman. There is now but little difference between his mental temper, and that of an average landsman of simple habits.

Music is the one enjoyment of the sailor at sea. In the second dog-watch, in sunny latitudes, after supper, when the work about decks has ceased, the sailing-ship's forecastle hands hold a concert, or sing-song. Sometimes they gather together on the forecastle-head, but more generally they sit about just forward of the forerigging, on the fore-hatch, to "sing their longing songs of home." Their repertoires are limited, but they never tire of the songs they have. They prefer a song with a chorus, so that all can take a part in it. If the song have no chorus, they generally repeat the solo part. When they begin to sing, in the hush of the evening, the reefers in the half-deck also start their sing-song, and the supernumeraries in the round-house make what melody they can; and perhaps the mate comes from his stuffy little cabin, and sits on the booby hatch, and strums his banjo to the stars. I have sailed in a ship in which the mate was musical, and a good singer. He used to play the concertina every evening while he sang patriotic songs in a high sweet tenor voice. One of his songs had a chorus:

Under the good old flag,
      Under the good old flag,
While fighting for England, he met his death
      Under the good old flag.

The sailors used to leave their own concerts, to creep as far aft as they dared, to the spare spars in the waist, where they could listen to him. The boatswain and his allies came from the round-house, and the reefers left the half-deck, where they were mixing hash, till the whole ship's company was listening to the singer, It was something like Orpheus and the beasts.  

Ohf the songs I have heard in these sea sing-songs very few were beautiful. The old naval ballad of "Spanish Ladies" was sometimes sung, and this old song was certainly they best of all I heard. There are several versions of the ballad. Those known to me follow more or less closely the version quoted by Captain Marryatt in his novel of Poor Jack.

Farewell and adieu to you fine Spanish Ladies
Farewell and adieu to you Ladies of Spain
For we've received orders to sail for Old England
And perhaps we shall nevermore see you again.

Chorus. We'll rant and we'll roar like true British Sailors,
We'll range and we'll roam over all the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues.

We hove our ship to when the wind was sou'west, boys,
We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear,
Then we filled our main-tops'l and bore right away, boys,
And right up the channel our course we did steer.

Chorus - We'll rant and we'll roar, etc.

The first land we make it is known as the Deadman,
Next Ram Head near Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight;
We sailèd past Beachy, past Fairley and Dungeness,
And then bore away for the South Foreland Light

Chorus - We'll rant and we'll roar, etc.

When I was lying in a Western Port, the crew of one of the ships at anchor formed a band, to perform nightly, on the forecastle head. They had a drum made out of an empty flour barrel, with canvas stretched across both ends. They had several triangles formed by beating marline spikes together. Several men performed upon the pannikin, or tin cup. Some had mouth-organs, or accordions. One had a fiddle. They had also a common melodeon, for which they had clubbed together their scanty silver. Night after night, when the darkness had made more palpable the roaring of the Pacific surf, the crew would gather under the stars to make music. One of their most popular songs was a sentimental ditty, sung to a sad tune. It had no chorus, properly speaking, but the crew repeated each stanza after the singer. The effect of the whole was strangely beautiful; for when the sailors sang, and the music went ringing over the bay, to the accompaniment of the surf, and the cluck of water, the common words became noble, and the poor tune sweet.

Oh, I am a poor girl,
Misfortune I know;
I once went a courting
A poor sailor boy.
I courted him early,
By night and by day,
But now, alas, he's transported
And sent far away

Here the band broke in with a solemn music, and the ballad rolled out over the sea, startling the seals and penguins. The penultimate line, which scanned indifferently, was invariably expressed with infinite pathos.

There was another song which they were fond of singing. I have heard it in various parts of the world, and I think that on the whole it has given me more pleasure than any song I have ever heard. It has many stanzas, for I expect that many of its lovers have added to it. It is sometimes sung as a chanty, especially aboard homeward-bound ships. I can only quote a very little of it, for it may be that many of those who read it will view it without sentiment.

Fare you well, Australian Maidens and the happy hours you sped,
But we never shall forget you, nor the loving words you said.
And the girls we leave behind us, they'll be faithful, they'll be true,
As we steer our barque for England out across the waters blue.

Rolling home,
Rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea;
Rolling home to merry England,
Rolling home, dear land, to thee.

Some of the songs I have quoted seem foolish now that they are written down. They are not the sort of songs to print. They are songs to be sung under certain conditions, and where those conditions do not exist they appear out of place. At sea, when they are sung in the quiet dog-watch, or over the rope, they are the most beautiful of all songs. It is difficult to write them down without emotion; for they are a part of life. One cannot detach them from life, One cannot write a word of them without thinking of days that are over, or comrades who have long been coral, and old beautiful ships, once so stately, which are now old iron.