The Tarry Buccaneer
I'm going to be a pirate with a bright brass pivot-gun,
And an island in the Spanish Main beyond the setting sun,
And a silver flagon full of red wine to drink when work is done,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a sandy creek to careen in, and a pig-tailed Spanish mate,
And under my main-hatches a sparkling merry freight Of doubloons and double moidores and pieces of eight,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a taste for Spanish wine-shops and for spending my doubloons,
And a crew of swart mulattoes and black-eyed octoroons,
And a thoughtful way with mutineers of making them maroons,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a sash of crimson velvet and a diamond-hiked sword,
And a silver whistle about my neck secured to a golden cord,
And a habit of taking captives and walking them along a board,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a spy-glass tucked beneath my arm and a cocked hat cocked askew,
And a long low rakish schooner a-cutting of the waves in two,
And a flag of skull and cross-bones the wickedest that ever flew,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
From
ER
MS
ND
DS, edited by John Masefield, published by The Macmillan Company,
New York,
US, 1921, pp 62-63.
The header graphic is titled "The Buccaneer" from
RE
ES
ES by P.
Christian, engraved by Huart, 1852 by Alexandre Debelle.
Charley Noble
John Masefield
Other author posts
A Creed
I hold that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the road again Such is my own belief and tru...
Reynard The Fox - Part 2
On old Cold Crendon's windy tops Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse, Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows, Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows, And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,
Cargoes
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks,
On Growing Old
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,