Name Sakes
UT where's the brown drifter that went out alone ? -Roll and go, and fare you well-" Was her name Peggy Nutten? " That name is my own.
Fare you well, my sailor.
They sang in the dark, " Let her go !
Let her go ! "And she sailed to the West, where the broad waters flow;
And the others come back, but . . . the bitter winds blow. Ah, fare you well, my sailor.
The women, at evening, they wave and they cheer. -Roll and go, and fare you well-They're waiting to welcome their lads at the pier.
Fare you well, my sailor.
They're all coming home in the twilight below;
But there's one little boat. . . .
Let her go !
Let her go!
She carried my heart, and a heart for the foe. Ah, fare you well, my sailor.
The Nell and the Maggie, the Ruth and the Joan, -'-Roll and go, and fare you well-They come to their name-sakes, and leave me alone.
Fare you well, my sailor.
And names are kep' dark, for the spies mustn't know;
But they'll look in my face, an' I think it will show;
Peggy Nutten's my name.
Let her go !
Let her go! Ah, fare you well, my sailor.
This poem was taken from Alfred Noyes' book The Elfin Artist and other poems, published in 1920 by William Blackwood and Sons.
It is in a section entitled Songs of the Trawlers.
JS
Alfred Noyes
Other author posts
In The Cool Of The Evening
In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken, When the laborers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will, When the censers of the roses o'er the forest aisles are shaken, Is it but the wind that cometh o'er...
To The R A F
Never since English ships went To singe the beard of Spain, Or English sea-dogs hunted Along the Spanish Main,
Niobe
How like the sky she bends above her child, One with the great horizon of her pain No sob from our low seas where woe runs wild, No weeping cloud, no momentary rain, Can mar the heaven-high visage of her grief, That frozen anguish, proud...
The Matin-song of Friar Tuck
I If souls could sing to heaven's high King As blackbirds pipe on earth, How those delicious courts would ring With gusts of lovely mirth What white-robed throng could lift a song So mellow with righteous As this brown bird that all...