1804 Poem, James Orr, 'The Passengers'
Author: James Orr
Date: 1804
Source: Poem: ‘The Passengers’, from Poems, on Various Subjects, by James Orr (Belfast: Printed by Smyth & Lyons, 1804).
Comments: James Orr (1770-1816), a weaver from Ballycarry in East Antrim, is sometimes regarded as the best Ulster-Scots ‘rhyming weaver’ of his generation. A close friend and associate of Samuel Thomson, he penned over 150 poems in his lifetime and became firmly established as the Bard of the common people. An account of his life and poetry can be found in the ‘Introduction’ to The Country Rhymes of James Orr by Philip Robinson (Belfast, 1992).
Doc. ref. no.: USLS/TB/Poetry/1800-1899/009
THE PASSENGERS
Down where yon anch’ring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting, flaps with ev’ry gale;
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Goldsmith.
How calm an’ cozie is the wight,
Frae cares an’ conflicts clear ay,
Whase settled headpiece never made,
His heels or han’s be weary!
Perplex’d is he whase anxious schemes
Pursue applause, or siller,
Success nor sates, nor failure tames;
Bandied frae post to pillar
Is he, ilk day.
As we were, Comrades, at the time
We mov’t frae Ballycarry,
To wan’er thro’ the woody clime
Burgoyne gied oure to harrie:
Wi’ frien’s consent we prie’t a gill,
An’ monie a house did call at,
Shook han’s, an’ smil’t; tho’ ilk fareweel
Strak, like a weighty mallet,
Our hearts, that day.
On shore, while ship-mates halt, tho’ thrang’t,
Wi’ lasses hearts to barter;
Nybers, an’ frien’s, in boatfu’s pang’t,
Approach our larboard quarter;
Syne speel the side, an’ down the hatch
To rest, an’ crack, an’ gaze on
The boles o’ births, that monie a wratch
Maun squeeze in, for a season,
By night, an’ day.
“This is my locker, yon’ers Jock’s,
“In that auld creel, sea-store is,
“Thir births beside us are the Lockes,[1]
“My uncle’s there before us;
“Here hang my tins an’ vitriol jug,
“Nae thief’s at han’ to meddle ’em” —
“L--d, man, I’m glad ye’re a’ sae snug;
“But och! ’tis owre like Bedlam
Wi’ a’ this day.
“All boats ashore!” the mate cries stern,
Wi’ oaths wad fear a saunt ay:
“Now Gude be wi’ ye, Brice, my bairn” —
“An’ Gude be wi’ ye, Auntie.”
What keep-sakes, an’ what news are sent!
What smacks, an’ what embraces!
The hurryin’ sailors sleely sklent
Droll leuks at lang wry faces,
Fu’ pale that day.
While “Yo heave O!” wi’ monie a yell
The birkies weigh the anchor;
Ilk mammies pet conceits itsel’
The makin’ o’ a Banker;
They’ll soon, tho’, wiss to lieve at hame,
An’ dee no worth a totam,
Whan brustin’ breast, an’ whamlin’ wame,
Mak’ some wise men o’ Gotham
Cry halt! this day.
Some frae the stern, wi’ thoughts o’ grief
Leuk back, their hearts to Airlan’;
Some mettle’t bucks, to work ay brief,
At en’s o’ rapes are harlin’;
Some haud aback frae dangers brow
Their toddlin’ o’er, no cautious;
An’ some, wi’ monie a twine an’ throe,
Do something wad be nauceous
To name, this day.
Meanwhile, below, some count their beads,
While prudes, auld-light sit cantin’;
Some mak’ their beds; some haud their heads,
An’ cry wi’ spite, a’ pantin’! —
“Ye brought us here, ye luckless cauf!
(“Aye did he; whisht my darlin’!)
L--d sen’ me hame! wi’ poke an’ staff,
“I’d beg my bread thro’ Airlan’,
My lane, that day.”
In twathree days the maist cam’ to,
Few heads were sair or dizzy;
An’ chiel’s wha scarce a turn cud do,
Begoud to be less lazy:
At night (to tell amang oursel’s)
They crap, wi’ fandness fidgin’,
To court - or maybe something else,
Gif folk becam’ obligin’,
Atween an’ day.
Roun’ the cambouse what motley ban’s
At breakfast-time cam’ swarmin’!
Tin, tankards, kettles, pots, an’ pans,
The braid flat fire was warmin’:
The guid auld rule, “first come first ser’t,”
Was urg’t by men o’ mettle;
An’ ay whan callens grew mislear’t,
The arm o’ flesh boost settle
Th’ affray, that day.
A bonie sight I vow it was,
To see on some lown e’nin’,
Th’ immense, smooth, smilin’ sea o’ glass,
Whare porpoises were stenin’:
To see at night the surface fine
That Cynthia made her path on;
An’ snove, an’ snore thro’ waves o’ brine,
That sparkle’t like a heath on
A bleaze some day.
But now a gale besets our bark,
Frae gulph to gulph we’re tumble’t;
Kists, kits, an’ fam’lies, i’ the dark,
Wi’ ae side-jerk are jumble’t:
Some stauchrin’ thro’ a pitch lays laigh —
Some, drouket, ban the breaker;
While surge, on surge, sae skelps her - Hegh!
Twa three like that will wreck her
A while ere day.
Win’s, wives, an’ weans, rampage an’ rave,
Three score at ance are speakin’;
While blacks wha a’ before them drave,
Lye cheepin’ like a chicken —
“What gart us play? or bouse like beasts?
“Or box in fairs wi’ venom?”
Hear how the captain laughs an’ jests,
An’ bit a bord between him
An’ death, this day.
’Tis calm again. While rightin’ things,
The heads o’ births are bizziet,
The seaman chews his quid, an’ sings,
An’ peys his frien’s a visit —
“Eh! dem my eyes! how is’t, goodman?
“Got clear of Davy’s locker?
“Lend me a facer till we lan’,
“Till blind as Newgate’s knocker
We’ll swig, that day.”
Here, gash guidmen, wi’ nightcaps on,
At ance baith pray an’ watch;
An’, there, for light, sits monie a loun
At Cartes beneath the hatch;
Here, some sing sangs, or stories tell,
To ithers bizzy knittin’;
An’, there some readin’ to themsels,
Nod owre asleep, while sittin’
Twa fold that day.
Now Newfoun’lan’s becalmin’ banks
Our ship supinely lies on;
An’ monie a ane his lang line fanks,
Whase heuk some captive dies on:
An’ now, disguis’t, a fore-mast-man
Shaves dry, the churls unwillin’
To pay the poll-tax on deman’ —
A pint, or else a shillin’
A piece, that day.[2]
Aince mair luck lea’s us (plain ’tis now
A murd’rer in some mess is)
An English frigate heaves in view,
I’ll bail her board, an’ press us:
Taupies beneath their wives wha stole,
Or ’mang auld sails lay flat ay,
Like whitrats peepin’ frae their hole,
Cried, “is she British, wat ye,
Or French, this day?”
’Twas but a brig frae Baltimore,
To Larne wi’ lintseed steerin’;
Twa days ago she left the shore,
Let’s watch for lan’ appearin’:
Spies frae the shrouds, like laigh dark clouds,
Descried domes, mountains, bushes;
The Exiles griev’t - the sharpers thiev’t —
While cronies bous’t like fishes,
Conven’t, that day.
Whan glidin’ up the Delaware,
We cam’ forenent Newcastle,
Gypes co’ert the wharf to gove, an’ stare,
While out, in boats, we bustle:
Creatures wha ne’er had seen a black,
Fu’ scar’t took to their shankies;
Sae, wi’ our best rags on our back,
We mixt amang the Yankies,
An’ skail’t, that day.
[1] A family who sailed for America in 1798.
[2] It has been a long established custom for the seamen, on reaching the banks of Newfoundland, to exact a shilling, or a shilling’s worth of liquor, from every passenger; and to shave, without soap, those who refuse to contribute their quota.