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- 2026-01-30T20:47:50.352Z
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- 616
- text
- Such scurvy doom could the chances deal
To Top-Gallant Harry and Jack Genteel?
Lo, Genteel Jack in hurricane weather,
Shagged like a bear, like a red lion roaring;
But O, so fine in his chapeau and feather,
In port to the ladies never once _jawing;_
All bland _politesse,_ how urbane was he—
_“Oui, mademoiselle”—“Ma chère amie!”_
’T was Jack got up the ball at Naples,
Gay in the old _Ohio_ glorious;
His hair was curled by the berth-deck barber,
Never you’d deemed him a cub of rude Boreas;
In tight little pumps, with the grand dames in rout,
A-flinging his shapely foot all about;
His watch-chain with love’s jeweled tokens abounding,
Curls ambrosial shaking out odors,
Waltzing along the batteries, astounding
The gunner glum and the grim-visaged loaders.
Wife, where be all these blades, I wonder,
Pennoned fine fellows, so strong, so gay?
Never their colors with a dip dived under;
Have they hauled them down in a lack-lustre day,
Or beached their boats in the Far, Far Away?
Hither and thither, blown wide asunder,
Where’s this fleet, I wonder and wonder.
Slipt their cables, rattled their adieu,
(Whereaway pointing? to what rendezvous?)
Out of sight, out of mind, like the crack _Constitution,_
And many a keel time never shall renew—
_Bon Homme Dick_ o’ the buff Revolution,
The _Black Cockade_ and the staunch _True-Blue._
Doff hats to Decatur! But where is his blazon?
Must merited fame endure time’s wrong—
Glory’s ripe grape wizen up to a raisin?
Yes! for Nature teems, and the years are strong,
And who can keep the tally o’ the names that fleet along!
But his frigate, wife, his bride? Would blacksmiths brown
Into smithereens smite the solid old renown?
Rivetting the bolts in the iron-clad’s shell,
Hark to the hammers with _a rat-tat-tat;_
“Handier a _derby_ than a laced cocked hat!
The _Monitor_ was ugly, but she served us right well,
Better than the _Cumberland,_ a beauty and the belle.”
_Better than the Cumberland!_—Heart alive in me!
That battlemented hull, Tantallon o’ the sea,
Kicked in, as at Boston the taxed chests o’ tea!
Ay, spurned by the _ram,_ once a tall, shapely craft,
But lopped by the Rebs to an iron-beaked raft—
A blacksmith’s unicorn in armor _cap-a-pie_.
Under the water-line a _ram’s_ blow is dealt:
And foul fall the knuckles that strike below the belt.
Nor brave the inventions that serve to replace
The openness of valor while dismantling the grace.
Aloof from all this and the never-ending game,
Tantamount to teetering, plot and counterplot;
Impenetrable armor—all-perforating shot;
Aloof, bless God, ride the war-ships of old,
A grand fleet moored in the roadstead of fame;
Not submarine sneaks with _them_ are enrolled;
Their long shadows dwarf us, their flags are as flame.
Don’t fidget so, wife; an old man’s passion
Amounts to no more than this smoke that I puff;
There, there, now, buss me in good old fashion;
A died-down candle will flicker in the snuff.
But one last thing let your old babbler say,
What Decatur’s coxswain said who was long ago hearsed,
“Take in your flying-kites, for there comes a lubber’s day
When gallant things will go, and the three-deckers first.”
My pipe is smoked out, and the grog runs slack;
But bowse away, wife, at your blessed Bohea;
This empty can here must needs solace me—
Nay, sweetheart, nay; I take that back;
Dick drinks from your eyes and he finds no lack!
TOM DEADLIGHT
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