The poems of Madison Cawein

High time, high time, good gentlemen, to sail the Spanish Main!
Three months we've watched for galleons and treasure bound for Spain;
Three months! and not a vessel, neither barque nor brigantine!
No Cartagena plate-ship, or De Dios, have we seen.
Our sails are idle as the wind, our ships as gulls or waves.—
And shall inaction rot us like a gang of shackled slaves?
Up, boucaniers! the land is wide, and wider far the sea—
Somewhere between the dusk and dawn and dusk some hope must be;
Some ship somewhere or city there beneath the Indian sky—
What matter whether east or west!—some ship with decks built high,

386

With treasure packed from stem to stern: some huge ship of the line,
Against whose ports we'll cram our ports, while all our cannon shine
And thunder; then, with blade to blade, and shouting horde on horde,
Swarm up her sides and sweep her decks with pistol and with sword;
And, sink or swim, our flag flies there, we boucaniers aboard.

Say, what availed your patron saints, Iago and Saint Marc,
Lanceros, Adelantados, against Ravenau's barque?
O butchers of good Jean Ribault, well might your cheeks turn pale
When Montebaro's brigantine shook to the wind her sail!
Round the coasts where New Spain boasts the haughtiness of Old,
Her tyranny, her bigotry, her sordid greed for gold,
From east to west, from north to south, among the Carib Isles,
Swift to revenge the Frenchman swept across the foaming miles.

387

The spirit of Pierre-le-Grand and of his gallant crew,
Who took a galleon with a boat, beneath the tropic blue,
Be with us now!—Up, gentlemen! and, Spain, oh, woe to you!

Prime arquebus and brighten blade, and let the culverin
Gleam, burnished as the morning-star, as through the foam we spin;
And now be glad as when we had Granada in our hold,
And stabbed the city's sentinels and took the city's gold:
New Spain's good homes and churches, aye, will not forget too soon
The boucanier, John Davis, sirs, who taught their Dons a tune—
Dutch serenades of belts and blades they danced to by the moon!

What helped the Latin of their monks to curse what Satan blessed!
Those pieces,—broad,—of eight and plate we counted in our chest.

388

And now that we may double or may treble every piece,
Pipe up the anchor, boatswain! and, before the hawser cease,
Let every sail salute the gale and every rope be taunt—
The Devil take all care and us, if jaundiced colors daunt!

The sea-gulls dip and dive and float, and swim and soar again;
Be like them, merry gentlemen, high-hearted!—May it rain
Rich galleons for us!—Mix a bowl and drink, “The ships of Spain!”
Be merry as the sea-gulls are; and, as the case may go,
Who cares a curse for wealth!—Now drink: “Here's to Spain's overthrow!”—
Doff caps and follow: though the prize be overfat or lean,
Kneel down now; give her praise who leads, Dame Fortune, our good Queen!
Upon our prow she guides us now!—On to Saint Augustine!

University of Virginia Library

JOHN DAVIS, BOUCANIER