Please is there anyone that knows all this poem from John Masefield?... that's all I can remember ... my dad used to tell it to me when I was a kid, and that's 35 years ago .... we both don't remember it ...He's now got Alzheimer disease and I was too young ... if anyone could help! those waters are really "ringing in ours ears"....
Can't find it on the Internet, but it was published in Salt Water Ballads - his first book (1902), with an American edition in about 1913. There are 15 used copied on amazon.com at $14.95 upwards, but only 2 hardback copies on amazon.co.uk, at £70-80!
It isn't in my 3 anthologies - Ward's English Poets, Palgrave or Wavell's Other Men's Flowers.
Suggest that, if no one else posts it, you could try a library for Salt Water Ballads or Collected or Selected Works of Masefield or even anthologies - there are porbably some of poems about the sea, for example, or poets of Masefield's period. It may also be in anthologies published for schools up to about 1960. If no success, try secondhand booksellers (abebooks hasn't got it listed at present). I will keep an eye out for it over the next few weeks.
Cris, you can buy the book here in the states for $4.50
It's listed #78 on this list:
[tinyurl.com] />
Les
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 05/28/2005 03:13AM by lg.
Here you go:
SPANISH waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,
Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;
Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar,
And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore,
Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees,
Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.
We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red,
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;
And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done,
We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,
Sinking, in the sucking quagmires to the sunburn on our breasts,
Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat,
Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship’s cool lazareet.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,
There was gear there’d make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,
Gold doubloons and double moidores, louis d’ors and portagues,
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;
Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica Bronze,
Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,
Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see,
And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers,
Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I’m the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their ways
Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,
And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.
It’s not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind,,
And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun’s disc dipping red,
And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
I’d be glad to step ashore there, Glad to take a pick and go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,
And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years
By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
Tettenhall.
'I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair'
The life of a moderator, neatly encapsulated. Poetry, eh?
Sounds beautiful, Stephen. Thanks for sharing it with us and thanks for the request,
Cris.
Les
this Indian of Brazil is never disappointed with him,
what a great poet.
"It’s not the way to end it all"
Poet Laureate of England was a porter in a saloon
What romantic occupation could you possibly predict for
a boy so adventurous that no one could control him, so reckless that
the aunt who took care of him after his father and mother died indentured
him to a merchant ship at the age of fourteen to curb him?.
That was John Masefield's start in life and today he holds the highest honors
England can give any poet.
Born in Ledburn, Herefordshire, England, in 1874, he sailed the seas
for three years. Leaving the ship in port at New York city, he took
any odd job he could get. He worked in a bakery and in a livery
stable. He was porter in Luke O'Connor's saloon at the Columbian
hotel near Jefferson Market jail.
Then he moved to Yonkers, at the north end of New York city, where
he worked in a carpet factory, rising to the magnificent position of
"mistake finder1' at $8.50 per week.
It was at this 'time, in his early twenties, that Masefield started to
write poetry and in 1897 he left for London. His first volume of verses,
"Salt Water Ballads," was published in 1902 opening with "A Consecration,"
in which he announces himself as the champion of "the
dust and scum of the earth." Books of verse and novels followed, one
upon the other, and John Masefield became established as one of England's
greatest poets.
So, remember John Masefield before you pass judgment on that
neighbor's boy who is such a holy terror or that young scamp who
works in the saloon across the railroad tracks. Some day his poetry
may draw a tear to your eye, a lump to your throat.
Deja view:
[tinyurl.com] />
On a point of information, Hugh, how did you remember that previous posting? I confess I had forgot it - I plead senility - and the search facility doesn't seem to catch it.
My memory is photogenic, I am proud to report.
[tinyurl.com] />
Hugh, I'm a little bit surprised that the major search engines didn't find the thread, since we are a little bit related. Google and Alta vista, I mean.
Les
Good point. Sometimes they do and sometimes they duddunt. Why that is, I have no clue.
[tinyurl.com] />
Thanks !It was posted!
Kindly Thanks to you all-and to e.mule-, in fact it should be hardly possible for me to find this poem here ; as far I'm typing from Brasil ! So, Thank you all , very very much!Cris .
I seem to have a different version of Spanish Waters:
SPANISH waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,
Like a sweet, quaint piece of music from the grey forgotten years;
Telling tales, and weaving runes, and bringing weary thoughts to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
Oh the sunny beach at Muertos, and the windy spit of sand,
Off of which we came to anchor while the shipmates went a-land,
Where the blue lagoon emptied over snags of rotting trees,
And the golden sunlight quivered on the brilliant colibris.
We came to port at Muertos when the dipping sun was red,
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;
And before the mist was on the Key, before the day was done,
We put ashore to Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,
Sinking, staggering in the quagmire till the lush weed touched the breasts,
While the slithering feet were squelching in the pulp of fallen fruits,
And the cold and clammy leeches bit and sucked us through the boots.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,
All the spoil of scuttled carracks,all the loot of Lima Town
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of perished crews,
Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d’ors and portagues,
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;
Silver cups and polished flagons, censers wrought in flowered bronze,
And the chased enamelled sword hilts of the courtly Spanish Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,
Which marks you where the gold is hid that none will ever see,
And we laid aboard the brig again, and south away we steers,
Through the loud white surf of Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I’m the last alive that knows it. All the rest were took and swung
In chains at Execution Dock,where thieves and such are hung.
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and castaway,
And I know where all the gold is that we won with L'Ollonais.
Well, I've had a merry life of it. I'm old and nearly blind,
But the sun-dried swinging shipmates' chains are clanking in my mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun’s disc dipping red,
And the tall brig, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
I’d be glad to step ashore there, Glad to take a pick and go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,
And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years
By the loud white surf of Muertos which is beating in my ears.
Sorry, a couple of mistakes in the previous posting. This is the definitive version.
SPANISH waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,
Like a sweet, quaint piece of music from the grey forgotten years;
Telling tales, and weaving runes, and bringing weary thoughts to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
Oh the sunny beach at Muertos, and the windy spit of sand,
Off of which we came to anchor while the shipmates went a-land,
Where the blue lagoon emptied over snags of rotting trees,
And the golden sunlight quivered on the brilliant colibris.
We came to port at Muertos when the dipping sun was red,
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;
And before the mist was on the Key, before the day was done,
We put ashore to Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,
Sinking, staggering in the quagmire till the lush weed touched the breasts,
While the slithering feet were squelching in the pulp of fallen fruits,
And the cold and clammy leeches bit and sucked us through the boots.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,
All the spoil of scuttled carracks,all the loot of Lima Town
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of perished crews,
Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d’ors and portagues,
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Emeralds ouches out of Rio, silver bars from Guayaquil;
Silver cups and polished flagons, censers wrought in flowered bronze,
And the chased enamelled sword hilts of the courtly Spanish Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,
Which marks you where the gold is hid that none will ever see,
And we laid aboard the brig again, and south away we steers,
Through the loud white surf of Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I’m the last alive that knows it. All the rest were took and swung
In chains at Execution Dock,where thieves and such are hung.
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and castaway,
And I know where all the gold is that we won with L'Ollonais.
Well, I've had a merry life of it. I'm old and nearly blind,
But the sun-dried swinging shipmates' chains are clanking in my mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun’s disc dipping red,
And the tall brig, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
I’d be glad to step ashore there, Glad to take a pick and go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,
And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years
By the loud white surf of Muertos which is beating in my ears.
Masefield did alter his poems at various times, and they appeared in different books etc in different forms - we had a discussion here once about whether 'I must down to the sea again to the lonely sea and the sky' or 'I must go down to the sea etc" was correct, and it turned out he had published both versions. I think he was a poet who never considered a poem 'finished' but always capable of improvement or possibly even just alteration for different purposes.
Thanks for posting the different version, and for correcting it, later.
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/07/2021 03:48AM by marian2.