Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads

THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE

          That night, when through the mooring-chains
              The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,
            To blunder down by Garden Reach
              And rot at Kedgeree,
            The tale the Hughli told the shoal
              The lean shoal told to me.

  'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,
    Where sailor-men reside,
  And there were men of all the ports
    From Mississip to Clyde,
  And regally they spat and smoked,
    And fearsomely they lied.

  They lied about the purple Sea
    That gave them scanty bread,
  They lied about the Earth beneath,
    The Heavens overhead,
  For they had looked too often on
    Black rum when that was red.

  They told their tales of wreck and wrong,
    Of shame and lust and fraud,
  They backed their toughest statements with
    The Brimstone of the Lord,
  And crackling oaths went to and fro
    Across the fist-banged board.

  And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
    Bull-throated, bare of arm,
  Who carried on his hairy chest
    The maid Ultruda's charm—
  The little silver crucifix
    That keeps a man from harm.

  And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,
    And Pamba the Malay,
  And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,
    And Luz from Vigo Bay,
  And Honest Jack who sold them slops
    And harvested their pay.

  And there was Salem Hardieker,
    A lean Bostonian he—
  Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,
    Yank, Dane, and Portuguee,
  At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
    They rested from the sea.

  Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,
    Collinga knew her fame,
  From Tarnau in Galicia
    To Juan Bazaar she came,
  To eat the bread of infamy
    And take the wage of shame.

  She held a dozen men to heel—
    Rich spoil of war was hers,
  In hose and gown and ring and chain,
    From twenty mariners,
  And, by Port Law, that week, men called
    her Salem Hardieker's.

  But seamen learnt—what landsmen know—
    That neither gifts nor gain
  Can hold a winking Light o' Love
    Or Fancy's flight restrain,
  When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes
    On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.

  Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,
    From Howrah to the Bay,
  And he may die before the dawn
    Who liquored out the day,
  In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
    We woo while yet we may.

  But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
    Bull-throated, bare of arm,
  And laughter shook the chest beneath
    The maid Ultruda's charm—
  The little silver crucifix
    That keeps a man from harm.

  “You speak to Salem Hardieker;
    “You was his girl, I know.

  “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, see,
    “Und round the Skaw we go,
  “South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,
    “To Besser in Saro.”

  When love rejected turns to hate,
    All ill betide the man.

  “You speak to Salem Hardieker”—
    She spoke as woman can.
  A scream—a sob—“He called me—names!”
     And then the fray began.

  An oath from Salem Hardieker,
    A shriek upon the stairs,
  A dance of shadows on the wall,
    A knife-thrust unawares—
  And Hans came down, as cattle drop,
    Across the broken chairs.
  *     *      *        *       *       *

  In Anne of Austria's trembling hands
    The weary head fell low:—
  “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, straight
    “For Besser in Saro;
  “Und there Ultruda comes to me
    “At Easter, und I go—

  “South, down the Cattegat—What's here?
    “There—are—no—lights—to guide!”
   The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,
    And Anne of Austria cried
  In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
    When Hans the mighty died.

  Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
    Bull-throated, bare of arm,
  But Anne of Austria looted first
    The maid Ultruda's charm—
  The little silver crucifix
    That keeps a man from harm.