The Tipsy Fisherman of Seaconnet

Our little state of seven by nine,
     Which we who love her call "Dear Rhody," 
And heaven itself preserves, — in brine,— 
With winding bays and long shore line, 
Fine coves, and "coves " that aren't so fine, 
Rears hardy men, whose hooks and twine 
     Draw fish as draw they elsewhere no day.

Sit on the deck some morn in May,—
     If not so sea-sick that you can't sit,—
And watch the scaly fry at play, 
(The fish, not men, we mean to say,)
And own such " schools " are rare, as they 
     Find "common" down the Narragansett.

"Much learning," said one, "makes you mad;"
     You'd thought so, oh! most noble Festus, 
To've seen whole schools in seine—of shad, 
Scupangies, bunkers, bass, which had,
'Gainst all geology has said,
     Been found in trap* to interest us.

But nets were nettles to the chap 
     We memorize — a true king fisher.
Among his "traps " was found no trap, 
He gave cork buoys an ire-ish slap, 
But smacks with "wells" smacked well, mayhap,
     To such he was a right well-wisher.

He was a tipsy Fisherman,
     Who coursed all seas around Seaconnet,
Yet hated water in pail or pan, 
In bucket, kettle, cup or can,
Although a'most since life began.
     He'd got his grog and gruel on it.

Across the bay in his light boat, 
     He'd paddie like a duck or plover.
He rowed to ride, and once afloat, 
A mote he seemed on waves remote.
For there was something in his coat,
     That straightway put him "half seas over."

Living by "hook," if not by "crook," 
     He was in so far apostolic;
But this strange paradox he took,—
To seine the fishes was to hook, —
No net in his net gains he'd brook, 
     The gin he loved was alcoholic.

"Tis strange how water runs to grog, 
     Your regular old salt's only nectar;
Rarely you'll catch a ' water-dog,"
Whose elbow needs a second jog, 
To take a cobbler, flip, or nogg,
     From Captain Noah down to Jack Tar.

By dint of catching crabs for bait, 
     Our man had grown a little crabbed, 
And took a sideway, sprawling gait, 
Which sometimes brought him round too late, 
For neither time nor tide would wait 
     To humor his untidy habit.

In all his changes some "small change"
     Kept up his spirits and spirit rations, 
For five cents his five senses' range 
Was widened into regions strange, 
Where haystack, cart, light-house, and grange,
     Were favored like near blood-relations.

He baited on each rocky shore, 
     With honest ardor unabated;
Bold rower against Atlantic's roar,
His thoughts could soar from fingers sore, 
To pore on how the breakers pour, 
     Then, low led, wait on lines lead-weighted.

"Nobody ever yet," he said,
      “Saw me the wus off for the liquor." 
In fact his skill stood much in stead 
Attacking with a "gale " ahead,
And "three sheets in the wind " full spread, 
     Just keeping up by running quicker.

In such a trim his hulk was steered, 
     One chilly morn as he went crabbing 
You ne'er had noticed, till he neared, 
How much he veered, poor unrevered!
Nor seen, though not a seer, how seared 
     His senses were,—just by his blabbing.

Seemed in his battered hat a brick, 
     Hung on his arm a battered bucket.
His wet-nurse Imp her broken neck 
Still managed from his poke to stick, 
And from that "headless spook" flowed quick
     "Such milk," whene'er he stopped to suck it!

Now, to catch crabs is very well,
     But being caught himself, at first, he 
Said words that aren't for us to tell, 
Shook both his claws, and raised a yell,
For your crustacean's blue " hard-shell " 
     Is "catching," and so you get crusty.

His wrath was up, and up he ripped 
     In wrath the sharp and slippery crab-stones.
He stumbled now, and now he slipped, 
Red, green and sand-crabs, how they nipped!
How fiercely into his pail were whipped,
     How yet more fiercely would he grab stones.

Thus toiling on in wet and dry, 
     He captured in the gross some twenty,
Which now the liquor to his eye 
Began so far to multiply,
The last "horn" seemed to verify 
     His notion of a horn of plenty.

A tempting clump of rock weed cool,—
     Its green balloons buoyed up by water, 
Just in the middle of a pool 
Seemed to his eyes a goodly stool,
Where down he slumped with grin and drool,
     A little further than he thought to.

His pail at hand, half overset,
     Out scrambled all the eager shell-fish, 
Sideways and backwards, glad to get 
Another taste of salt and wet, 
And glorious freedom, better yet
     For human, and for you as well, fish.

He snatched them in, and still they ran,
     He saw it not, he was so hurried, 
And snatching evermore, began 
To growl the tipsy Fisherman,
"This bucket holds so many, I van,
     I'm kine o' gittin' t'be discour'ed!"

And still I see him catching crabs, 
     In spite of time and tide and tempest.
Now grabs he one, and now one grabs, 
And still they run, as still he nabs, 
And still with muttered words he blabs, —
     A "speaking picture," just the dampest!

A thousand years the waves may break
     Along West Island's cliffs of granite, 
Swell Briggs's Creek to one great lake, 
Eat Sisson's farm up, like a cake, 
But neer shall time or tide o'ertake 
     The Tipsy Fisherman of Seaconnet.