The Coasters
by Thomas Fleming Day (1861-1927) |
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Overloaded, undermanned,
Trusting to a lee,
Playing I-spy with the land,
Jockeying the sea�
That
's the way the Coaster goes,
Through calm and hurricane:
Everywhere the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,
From Mexico to Maine.
O East and West! O North and
South!
we ply along the shore,
From famous Fundy's
foggy mouth,
From voes of Labrador;
Through pass and
strait, on sound and sea.
From port to port we stand�
The rocks of Race fade on our lee,
We hail the Rio
Grande.
Our sails are never lost to sight;
On every
gulf and bay
They gleam, in winter wind-cloud white,
In summer rain-cloud gray.
We hold the coast with
slippery grip;
We dare from cape to cape:
Our leaden
fingers feel the dip
And trace the channel's shape.
We
sail or bide as serves the tide;
Inshore we cheat its
flow,
And side by side at anchor ride
When stormy
head-winds blow.
We are the offspring of the shoal,
The hucksters of the sea;
From customs theft and pilot
toll
Thank God that we are free.
Legging on and
off the beach,
Drifting up the strait,
Fluking down
the river reach,
Towing through the gate�
That 's the
way the Coaster goes,
Flirting with the gale:
Everywhere the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,
From York to Beavertail.
Here and there to get a
load,
Freighting anything;
Running off with spanker
stowed,
Loafing wing-a-wing�
That 's the way the
Coaster goes,
Chumming with the land:
Everywhere the
tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,
From Ray to Rio
Grande.
We split the swell where rings the bell
On
many a shallow's edge,
We take our flight past many a
light
That guards the deadly ledge;
We greet Montauk
across the foam,
We work the Vineyard Sound,
The
Diamond sees us running home,
The Georges outward bound;
Absecom hears our canvas beat
When tacked off Brigantine;
We raise the Gulls with lifted sheet,
Pass wing-and-wing
between.
Off Monomoy we fight the gale,
We drift
off Sandy Key; 65
The watch of Fenwick sees our sail
Scud for Henlopen's lee.
With decks awash and canvas torn
We wallow up the Stream;
We drag dismasted, cargo borne,
And fright the ships of steam.
Death grips us with his
frosty hands
In calm and hurricane;
We spill our bones
on fifty sands
From Mexico to Maine.
Cargo reef in
main and fore,
Manned by half a crew,
Romping up the
weather shore,
Edging down the Blue�
That 's the way
the Coaster goes,
Scouting with the lead:
Everywhere
the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,
From Cruz
to Quoddy Head. |
By Thomas Fleming Day (1861-1927)
Listed December 4, 2012 |
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