Captain Stratton’s Fancy
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight:
But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,
And some’ll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;
But I’m for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows;
For it’s that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,
And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses’ eyes;
But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some that’s good and godly ones they hold that it’s a
To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin;
But I’m for toleration and for drinking at an inn, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,
And there’s a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;
So I’m for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots, Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
From
ER
MS
ND
DS, edited by John Masefield, published by The Macmillan Co.,
New York,
US, 1944, p. 125-126; first published in
ER
MS, © 1902.
John Masefield
Other author posts
Sea Fever
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and ...
Roadways
One road leads to London, One road leads to Wales, My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails One road leads to the river, As it goes singing slow; My road leads to shipping, Where the bronzed sailors go
On Eastnor Knoll
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy Calling the cows home A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but Still the red, lurid w...
Night Is On The Downland
Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland, On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf, Where the bent grass beats upon the unplowed poorland And the pine-woods roar like the surf Here the Roman lived on the wind-...