A Tar's Advice

And so you’ve come, my lad, to sea,

                to share this bravesome life, as we

the hearty tars who cruise the line.

                Consider now and change your mind.

What promise brought you here to be?

                To sail the globe so wide and free?

To see the island girls so fair?

                Or claim your rich and oily share?

‘Tis true, the world you’ll see and more,

                and many a comely lass offshore.

Of riches, well, you’ll have your bread,

                and pocket money to drown your head.

‘Tis manly stuff and good clean fun,

                to sail the seas under the sun,

with distant shores and yarns to spin.

                Aboard, my lad, your prize to win!

Hear the watch sing, “Thar she blows!”

                We’ll fetch our line and down we go.

Snug in our boats upon the waves,

                all stalwart men and fearless mates.

To chase the whale-fish for miles far

                with wood and iron, line and dart.

In leviathan’s wake we shall ride

                until our lance snuffs out his life.

“All hands to oars, boys, pull for home.”

                "To boil ‘em, boys, and take his bone.”

A hundred-barreler, all to share,

                we’ll drink our health when we get there.

Come ride the waves before the wind,

                a-follow’n where the whaler’s been.

Over oceans and ‘round the horn,

                while sweethearts pine and mother’s mourn.

When gales they blow up heavy seas

                you’ll skip upon the shiv’ring trees.

You’ll furl the sails and bind them well

                while swingin’ free twixt heav’n and hell.

The world you’ll see from end-to-end,

                and pray one day your soul to send

back home, my boy, to bosom warm,

                the day you face the sparmer’s scorn.

Such tender youth with fateful choice,

                did hear the sea’s soft, briny voice.

The sailor’s life, fine, cruel and hard

                when lashed by gales upon the yard.

When up the tree while rough seas toss,             

                never a cruise without a loss. 

Some boy whose mother spurned the day,

                or widow-wife whose husband lays

so far from home, lost to the deep

                ne’er to return and so she weeps.

O father, son, so far from home

                a-followin’ where the whale-fish roam.

‘Tis great adventure, my true lad,

                draw tight your belt and hearken glad.

Hear the words of this salty dog.

                Ship on, now boy, and sign the log.

© 1998 Craig Roberts