Making
Waves
Lyrics
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| Song
Information and Liner Notes
The Anchor
Song
Words by R. Kipling. Music by P. Bellamy
Heh! Walk her round.
Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there
and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards
aback and full -
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah, fare you well;
we can stay no more with you, my love -
Down, set down your liquor
and your girl from off your knee;
For the wind has come to say:
’You must take me while you may,
If you’d go to Mother Carey
(Walk her round to Mother Carey!)
Oh, we’re bound to Mother Carey
where she feeds her chicks at sea!’
Hey! Walk her round.
Break, ah, break it out o’ that!
Break our starboard bower out
apeak, awash and clear!
Port, port she casts
with her harbour mud beneath her foot.
And that’s the last o’ bottom
we shall see this year!
Well, ah, fare you well
for we’ve got to take her out again -
Take her out in ballast
riding light and cargo free.
And it’s time to clear and quit
When the hawser grips the bitt,
So we’ll pay you with the foresheet
and a promise from the sea!
Hey! Tally on.
Aft and walk away with her!
Handsome to the cathead now;
Oh, tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish,
and easy on the davit-guy.
Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
Well, ah, fare you well,
for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
Choking down our voices
as we snatch the gaskets free,
And it’s blowing up for night,
And she’s dropping light on light,
And she’s snorting and she’s snatching
for a breath of open sea!
Wheel, full and by;
but she’ll smell her road alone tonight.
Sick she is and harbour-sick -
oh, sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest
with the old Red Ensign over us -
Carry on and thrash her out
with all she’ll stand!
Well, ah, fare you well,
and it’s Ushant slams the door on us,
Whirling like a windmill
through the dirty scud to lee,
Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
We’re off to Mother Carey
(Walk her round to Mother Carey).
Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey
where she feeds her chicks at sea!
Congo
River
Traditional
Was you ever down the Congo River?
Blow boys blow!
Where fever makes the white man shiver.
Blow me bully boys blow!
A Yankee ship come down the river,
Her masts and spars they shone like silver.
How do y’know she’s a Yankee liner?
By the Stars and Bars that float behind her.
Who do y’think was the skipper of her?
Old Bully Hayes, he’s a sailor robber.
What do y’think that they had for breakfast?
The starboard side of an old so’wester.
What do y’think that they had for dinner?
Hot water soup but a little bit thinner.
What do y’think that they had for supper?
Belayin’ pin pie and a roll in the scupper.
What do y’think that they had for cargo?
Black sheep that had run the embargo.
Blow today and blow tomorrow.
Blow me from this ship of sorrow.
Blow m’boys and blow for ever.
Blow me down that Congo River.
The
African Trade
An Ex-Sailor’s Life
Swallow the Anchor
Tom Lewis
For the lyrics to these and other Tom Lewis copyrighted songs,
contact Tom
Lewis.
Herzogin
Cecile
Ken Stephens
Sailing down the Baltic
where the wreck mark buoys peal
Cruising down the Channel
where the steamers never yield,
Beating through the Biscay
where the crew, they get no meals -
She’s the mighty sailing ship,
the Herzogin Cecile!
The Herzogin Cecile, the Herzogin Cecile,
She is the mighty sailing ship
the Herzogin Cecile!
Tacking in the Tasman sea
where the winds upon her steal
Rolling in the Doldrums
where the slightest wind she’ll feel
Roaring down the Forties
with her rigging taut as steel
There goes the mighty...
Coming down from Labrador
with a load of pine and deal
Off Tierra Del Fuego
where the albatrosses wheel
Running eastward for the Horn,
hear her rigging squeal
She is the mighty...
She’s the greyhound of the ocean
the fastest in her field
But she’s run upon the Bolt Head
in the mist to test her steel
She’s hard aground on the rocks
that have broken her keel
She was the mighty...
The
Whale
Stuart M. Frank
On the deep and moody ocean
Briny foam and steely grey
Lonely bow wash in drowsy motion
Lulled my dreams at break of day
And the misty world was silent
In the light of morning skies
With the sails full set above me
And the sea spray in my eyes
And I can’t say how it happened
In the blinking of an eye
In a flash of foam and fury
Came the gulls with mournful cry
The great ocean waters parted
And with head held proud and high
Burst the whale who spumed and started
With the ages in his eye
And his back was black and brawny
And his flukes would splash the sky
For a fragment of an instant
He met my gaze square in the eye
All that day across the ocean
By our ship full trimmed with sail
Swam the whale with leaps
and bounding
Right beside our starboard rail
And his back was black and shiny
Like an onyx in the spray
And the crew of four and thirty
Joyful smiled to see him play
Then he churned the great Atlantic
With a flourish of his tail
And he blew a fateful geyser
And he smiled, I swear he smiled
The ageless smile of the whale
When I dream now of the ocean
Of the wild and foaming brine
It’s his eye that holds my vision
That same eye that gazed in mine
In my dreams I see him smiling
Somewhere on the sea
And I wonder when he’s sleeping
If sometimes, if sometimes
Maybe sometimes
He dreams of me
La
Paimpolaise
Quittant ses genets et sa lande
Quand le Breton se fait marin
En allant aux peches d’Islande
Voici quel est le doux refrain
Que le pauvre gars fredonne tout bas
J’aime Paimpol et sa falaise
Son eglise et son grand pardon
J’aime surtout la Paimpolaise
Qui m’attend au pays Breton
Quand le bateau quitte nos rives
Le cure leur dit “Mes bons vieux
Priez souvent monsieur Sant Yves
Qui nous voit des cieux toujours bleus”
Et le pauvre gars fredonne tout bas
Le ciel est moins bleu n’en deplaise
A saint Yvon notre patron
Que les yeux de la Paimpolaise
Qui m’attend au pays Breton
Guide par sa petite etoile
Le vieux patron d’un air tres fin
Dit souvent que sa blanche voile
Semble l’aile d’un seraphin
Et le pauvre gar fredonne tout bas
Ta voilure, mon vieux Jean Blaise
Est moins blanche au mat d’artimont
Que la coiffe de ma Paimpolaise
Qui m’attend au pays Breton
Sou’
Spain
C. Fox Smith/W.Pint
Are you coming, Johnie Bowline
Have you had your fill of fun?
Are you ready Johnie Bowline
Now your payroll’s spent and done
And your welcome’s growing stale,
And your pals begin to fail,
And there’s something seems to whisper
That it’s time to sign again-
Time to hit the trail you know
Time to pay your shot and go,
Time to heave your donkey’s breakfast in
And sail Sou’ Spain!
South Spain
In the grey dawn breaking chill
South Spain
Give it lip lads with a will
Oh don’t you weep for me
My lovely Liza Jane
You’ll soon forget your sailorman
That’s sailed Sou’ Spain
Are you coming, Johnie Bowline,
have you kissed your girl adieu?
There’s a lofty skysail clipper,
And I think she waits for you,
And she’s ready for the sea.
And the peter’s flying free,
And the wind goes through her rigging
Like a ranting old refrain:
“time to find a ship once more,
You’ve been over long ashore,
Time to hump your old sea chest aboard
and sail South Spain”
Hurry up now Johnie Bowline
For she hasn’t long to stay,
Get a move on ,Johnie Bowline
If you mean to come away,
For the tide is at the flood,
And the anchor’s off the mud,
And they’re tramping round the capstan
In the darkness and the rain
And the oilskins and sea chest
Go the way of all the rest
Oh it’s time to take the pierhead jump
And sail South Spain
Rolling
Down To Rio
R. Kipling./P. Bellamy
Well, I’ve never seen the Amazon
and I never reached Brazil
But The Don and the Magdelana
they can go there when they will,
And weekly from Southampton
great steamers white and gold
Go rolling down to Rio,
roll down, roll down to Rio
And I’d like to roll to Rio
some day before I’m old.
Well, I’ve never seen a jaguar
nor yet an armodill...
...O, Dilloin’ in his armour
and I s’pose I never will -
Unless I go to Rio
these wonders to behold
Go rolling down to Rio
roll really down to Rio
And I’d like to roll to Rio
some day before I’m old.
Yes, I’d love to roll to Rio
some day before I’m old!
Pull
Down Lads
John Tams
Pull down lads
pass the bevy round lads,
Ta’ra to Sylvie - ta’ra to Jean
we’ll soon be on the road.
Don’t think on what you’re leavin’
don’t think on what you’ve found,
Just - tear off the tilt, pull out the chat,
we’ll find another ground.
Pull down lads
it wasn’t a bad ground lads,
We’ve made some brass -
you’ve had a lass
it’s p’raps as well we’re goin’.
I know how it can hurt lads
to leave her standin’ here,
For there’s often tears
and there’s always fears
but you’ll be back next year.
Pull down lads
the sets are coolin’ down lads,
The ox all packed
and the dodgems stacked
a bite of scran then go.
We’ll leave it as we found it
they’ll soon forget we’ve been,
For we trade in fun and we go and come,
We’re often scorned but seldom mourned,
So, pull down lads, pull down. |
