Dear list
This was forwarded to me via a Cornwall list which allows ephemera within
reason. Pertaining to ships and our ancestors voyages to 'New Worlds' and
back, please allow me the indulgence of sea worthy poem by Byron, (even if
he was a Gordon). Personally I am saving to enclose with voyager pictures
and other notes, as a first hand account.
Sincerely David
Written by Lord Byron board a Falmouth Packet ship. Sent to Francis
HODGSON, from the Falmouth Roads - June 30th, 1809.
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass oer the mast,
From aloft the signal's streaming
Hark! the farewell gun is fired,
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired
Here's a rascal
Come to task all
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking
Cases cracking
Not a corner for a mouse
Scapes unsearched amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient -- push from shore --
"Have a care! that Case holds liquor
Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!"
"Sick, Maam! damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and Women
Gemmen, Ladies, servants, Jacks,
Here entangling
All are wrangling
Stuck together close as wax,
Such the genial noise and racket
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reach'd her, lo! the Captain
Gallant* Kidd commands the crew,
Passengers now their berths are clapt in
Some to grumble, some to spew,
"Heyday! call you that a Cabin?
Why 't is hardly three feet square
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in,
Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, Sir? plenty
Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill."
"Did they? - Jesus!
How you squeeze us
Would to God, they did so still,
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs
Bear a hand -- you jolly tar you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs,
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses
As the hatchway down he rolls
Now his breakfast, now his verses
Vomits forth & damns our souls,
Here's a stanza
On Braganza
Help! -- A couplet --no, a cup
Of warm water,
"What's the matter?"
Zounds! my liver's coming up,
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.
Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back,
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack,
But, since life at most a jest is
As Philosophers allow
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on -- as I do now.
Laugh at all things
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore,
While we're quaffing
Let's have laughing
Who the devil cares for more?
Some good wine, & who would lack it?
Even on board the Lisbon Packet?
* for gallant read gallows