The Fisher Boy :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Fisher Boy

A Poem Comprising his Several Avocations, during the four Seasons of the Year ... By H. C. [i.e. S. W. H. Ireland]

Ireland, W. H. (1777-1835)

[epigraph]

SPRING.

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SPRING.

THE ARGUMENT.

Invocation to the Muse.—The Maniac Jane.—Filial tenderness. —Spring described.—A Storm at Night.—The Fisher Boy assists.—His Mental Cogitations.—Ned mends the Net. —The Fisher-Boy's Song.—Manner of Shooting and Hanling the Sean.—Division of the Fish.—The Jolter.—Ned prepares Whiting to make the Buckhorn.—A bad Haul described, with the Fisher-Boy's reasoning thereupon.—Conviction.—The Poet's conclusive Wish.

No more my Muse, by martial deeds inspir'd,
Shall sing of heroes with ambition fir'd;
Whose minds insatiate by new conquests led,
Enroll their fame 'midst millions of the dead.
No more the broils of nations I rehearse,
No crooked policy now marks my verse;
To courts adieu, and ev'ry specious art,
That gives a varnish to the vicious heart:
To thee, soft god, enslaver of the soul,
Alike farewell.—I spurn thy soft controul,
To roseate bowers be gone, where dulcet strains
Invite thee to allay thy minions' pains.
Fly hence, ye visions: let my humbler muse
Less vice with more simplicity infuse:

Yes, come thou little sea-boy, come to me,
For thou alone inspir'st my minstrelsy;
Thy deeds to chronicle is all I crave,
And snatch thy mem'ry from oblivion's grave.

On Albion's coast, where Neptune's surges roar,
And western winds salubrious fan the shore,
Its straw-clad roofs an hamlet mean displays,
To wintry storms expos'd, and summer's rays:
There nightly on the beach, sad, silent, slow,
Poor Jane the maniac strays, oppress'd with woe;
Now halts to gaze upon the orb of night,
Then sighing, starts like one appall'd with fright:
Or when the skies, with murky clouds o'ercast,
Her tresses wanton in the nipping blast,
While on her garments falls the drenching rain,
That vainly would allay the fev'rish pain,
Which, canker-like, the mental peace destroys,
And robs her heart of all congenial joys.

'Twas man, deceitful man, with baseness fraught,
And varnish'd tale, the yielding Jenny sought,
And 'lur'd her from the paths of spotless fame,
To tread the beaten road of public shame;
By passion urg'd, her soul confess'd the love,
Which was at once her joy and bane to prove,
The first as short liv'd as the bliss procur'd,
The last with frenzied pain to be endur'd:
For still from year to year she feels the smart,
And moans her fault with blood-drops from the heart.
O! monster, when the maid was in thy pow'r,
Could'st thou so basely cull the stainless flow'r!

And after leave it to those stings of fate,
The pangs of conscience, and the world's dire hate?
Could'st thou forget how oft, with honour's tongue,
By thee, the theme of marriage had been sung;
How, urg'd by solemn pledges of thy troth,
She yielded all without the nuptial oath;
Yes, gave her character in trust to thee,
And all thy recompense was perfidy.

Yet soft, arraign not fate's all just behest,
Vengeance, ere long, assail'd his perjur'd breast;
Far from the victim fled, he sought in vain
To hoard up wealth, his darling impulse—gain;
The toil how fruitless; pain procur'd but cross,
Venture on venture, brought on loss on loss.
Ruin'd, and poverty at length his lot,
Duty, religion, were alike forgot;
Spurning the laws, his guilty thoughts applied
To wrench by force that gold his God denied.
By theft debas'd, he met the felon's doom,
Consign'd from execution to the tomb.
Thus died the object of the maniac's joy,
Source of her anguish—parent of her boy;

Of honest Ned, who, with unceasing pain,
Strives to wash out his father's guilty stain,
And to her wounds the balm of comfort lend,
At once the child, the christian, and the friend.
'Tis his the task to labour out the day,
And trace at eve his mother's lonesome way;
With tender converse strive to lull her pain,
And safe conduct her to the cot again.

Then on the hearth the buckhorn Ned will broil,
Their simple supper—produce of his toil.
And oft in tears will mark her tearless eye,
As when with stedfast gaze she heaves the sigh,
And vainly strives to vent the gushing grief,
For tears alone can yield her heart relief;
The cause is rooted, and no pow'r can save,
Her only remedy—the peaceful grave.
Yet hold, from suff'ring Jane my Muse now flies,
And wings her way to Spring's etherial skies,
When bursting buds array the leafless trees,
And op'ning flowers perfume the genial breeze;
Come, boist'rous March, and let the Pisces bring
With equinoxial winds the dawn of spring;

When angry billows, with incessant roar,
Dash o'er the shingle, and assail the shore,
Then spent, retire to join their wat'ry home,
And lave the sandy beach with milky foam.
Now, swiftly wafted by the howling gale,
Fall frozen show'rs of chrystal icy hail,
Which oft, like gems, the seaman's jacket grace,
Or, thaw'd by heat, course down his rugged face.
By frost led on, chaste Dian's crest is seen,
Spangling the vast expanse of liquid green,
Till clouds the glitt'ring surface quite obscure,
Which only beam'd a transitory lure.
Inviting smugglers forth to tempt the deep,
And bury rashness in eternal sleep.
The o'er fraught clouds, now poiz'd 'twixt heav'n and sea,
Besiege the moon with black artillery;
In torrents, not in drops, pour down the rain,
Still adding horrors to the boist'rous main;

Where, toss'd in fell distress, the vessel rocks,
And bilges as she feels repeated shocks.
The well-known signal gains the sea-girt land,
Where hardy sailors line the darken'd strand,
Face ev'ry peril to prolong life's breath,
And snatch poor seamen from impending death:
'Tis then, from sleep arous'd, poor little Ned
Will rush, half clad, from out his truckle bed,
Straight to the shore, with nimble speed repair,
To lend his aid, should aught require him there;

The dismal truth once known, his hand is giv'n,
Pure effort, worthy of a son of heav'n;
His little arms, extended at full length,
Shove on the boat, and vie with manly strength,
O'er hills of pebbles still the bark he'll urge,
Until it gains at length the buoyant surge;
Soon as the wave toss'd skiff begins to float,
Experienc'd vet'rans spring into the boat,
Heedless of peril, and the drenching spray,
They dare the waves, that bear them far away;
Meantime the sea-boy on the shingle stands,
With heart high beating, and with firm clasp'd hands,
His eyes upon the blacken'd deep still bent,
Thus to the winds he gives his thoughts free vent:

“Ah! would that I the name of man could boast,
“And safely steer from dangers of the coast,
“Had strength to buffet ev'ry yawning wave,
“And ride triumphant o'er a wat'ry grave;
“No more in idleness should I remain,
“To view the dangers of the briny plain;
“No more be left expectant on the strand,
“Myself a help-mate of th' advent'rous band;
“Oh! then how amply would my toils be blest,
“To tender comfort to the poor distress'd,
“To see preserv'd their cargo and their lives;
“No orphans left, no hapless widow'd wives.
“This to behold, and know myself one cause,
“Of their safe rescue from fate's rueful jaws,

“Would lead me to despise all fears of death,
“For should I sink, I nobly yield my breath,
“Since I had plac'd in heav'n alone my trust,
“The impulse mercy, and my God is just.”
Such were the stripling's thoughts; and though they broke
In humbler accents, as the theme he spoke,
The pray'r was equally receiv'd on high,
For there's no favour with the Deity.
While thus pray'd little Ned, disdaining fear,
The seamen still towards the vessel steer,
And gain at length the laden brig distress'd,
By winds, by waves, and shoals at once oppress'd;
Then, ere day's dawning, pilot safe to shore,
Poor souls, who thought to see their homes no more.

Now scarce is Aries usher'd in with wet,
When little Ned repairs some owner's net;

To earn a sixpence from the master, he
From morn till night toils on incessantly,
With twine and needle works, the flaws to mend,
And with the mesh makes good each gaping rend;
No sinful thought his busy mind employs,
The hand that labours, venom'd vice destroys;
Dispels those vapours luxury oft brings,
Makes gods of poor men, slaves of ermin'd kings.
Free from such soul-subduing thoughts, the lad,
Arm'd with the consciousness of right—feels glad:
For pastime, oft some ditty he'll rehearse,
In strains as simple as the native verse,
While on the net sweet chubby infants play,
And others list attentive to the lay.

THE FISHER-BOY's SONG.

There lived once in Dorsetshire,
A maid of beauty bright,
Whose fame was spread both far and near,
To wound full many a knight;
For she was found so passing fair,
That all who came to woo,
Being scorn'd, departed full of care,
Sly love had pierc'd them through.

Thus for a time her maiden heart
Prov'd cold to ev'ry one,
Some said she play'd a cruel part,
Some vow'd she'd turn a nun;

But Cupid, who ne'er yet was found
To suffer cold disdain,
His arrow shot, which caus'd a wound,
For he ne'er aims in vain.

And as her haughty breast so long
Had dar'd his shaft despise,
He vow'd he would avenge the wrong,
And her proud heart surprize;
But not for lord, or knight, or squire,
Did he her love trepan,
For him, who then she did desire,
Was a poor fisherman.

'Twas on the beach, her eyes amaz'd,
First felt the potent pow'r,
Her love increasing as she gaz'd,
Was rooted from that hour;

In vain she warr'd against her fate,
And rous'd her bosom's pride,
The little god, enthron'd in state,
Was not to be denied.

And soon her spirits 'gan to fail,
Her cheeks the damask fled,
Until she look'd as wan and pale,
As one rose from the dead:
And doctors now in vain combin'd,
Her malady to move,
The pain was rooted in the mind;
'Twas all consuming love.

No rest by day, by night no sleep,
She soon approach'd death's door,
Her eyes did nothing else but weep,
Her bosom but deplore;

At length, unable to endure
The anguish of her breast,
Her humbled pride then sought a cure,
The secret she confess'd.

And after she the youth had seen,
Who proffer'd her his heart,
She rose once more, like beauty's queen,
And nurs'd the thrilling smart:
For soon at Hymen's sacred fane
She prov'd a blushing bride,
In bliss was banish'd all her pain,
His love was all her pride.

From this example, maids, take heed,
How Cupid you defy,
Or, when expected least, you'll bleed,
And like this fair one sigh.

Nor should this ditty less allure
The children of the cot,
By love are levell'd rich and poor,
Distinction quite forgot.

In April Ned oft hears the welcome call,
And gladsome flies to tend the wish'd for haul,
O'er briny waves now undulates the boat,
Rides their curv'd tips—or sinks in peace to float.
A wat'ry mountain still succeeds, and now
Through the curl'd precipice glides on the bow,
While right and left the splashing surges rise,
And veil each object from the gazer's eyes;

Rang'd on the beach, at equal distance stand,
To haul each line, a motley lab'ring band,
Men, women, children, draw the ropes amain,
And little Ned cries out—God speed our Seine!
But as the floating corks approach, so those
Employ'd at either rope run on to close;

And now the twiny snare the beach bespreads,
Tangled with sea-weeds, variegated shreds:
At length, as nearer draws the finny weight,
Each countenance betrays a mind elate,
Feelings in turn resume their wonted scope,
Now pallid fear pervades—now anxious hope.
The Seine on shore, no fear Ned's joy controuls,
Who leaps to view a glorious haul of soles,
With plenteous heaps of whitings, silv'ry skins,
And their companions the cream-coated blins.
The owner of the nets especial care,
Is next to note down each assistant there;

Another hand prepares to count the store,
When sep'rate heaps of fish o'erspread the shore,
Whose glitt'ring scales such varied tints impart,
As bid defiance to the hand of art;
For then in quick succession will arise,
Pearls, di'monds, em'ralds, living to the eyes,
The tint of roses mingling with the hue
Of pansie, daffodil, and violet blue;
And yet, poor harmless offspring of the deep,
For ye the liquid drops mine eyes ensteep,

As writhing, I your tinsell'd forms behold,
Your heaving gills, and eyes of blue and gold,
Ring-like distended, and with glazy stare,
Bent on high heav'n, with fix'd and anguish'd glare;
Dullness at length each brilliant orbit shades,
For gold and azure, misty film pervades;
Thus death approaching, veils the sparkling sight,
And closes in proportion life and light.
Each parcel counted, Ned receives his lot,
For e'n the smallest child is ne'er forgot;
And if some red-nos'd Jolter then should wish,
For market-town to purchase lots of fish,

Ned to the wily barterer will hie,
Present his stock, and ask him if he'll buy;
Hard bargain, to ensure the most he can,
For though no Jew, our sea-boy knows his man.
But if no dealer waits: the welcome gain
Ned forthwith eases of its ling'ring pain;
Beneath the gill, and thro' the mouth applied,
His nimble fingers straight the twine doth glide.
Arriv'd at cot, to Jane he shows the string,
Conscious his toils increasing comforts bring,

His stool then places at the cottage door,
From whence are seen the breakers and the shore;
His knife he wets upon the nearest stone,
Each whiting's back rips down, then draws the bone,
And being cleans'd of entrails, and of blood,
He laves the carcase in fresh water's flood,
Some salt applies, then plac'd in sun or shade,
Leaves it to dry, and thus the Buckhorn's made;
Whose firm flesh, hoarded up, affords a treat,
By hunger season'd, far beyond rich meat,
When stew'd with luscious sauces, that excel
In pamp'ring appetite and sating smell.

With genial Taurus milder breezes play,
Though sometimes cold assumes a transient sway;

Light clouds dispense around translucent show'rs,
To nurse the soil, and rear the opening flow'rs.
Ned, watchful, at each haul repairs to aid,
His only profit now the fishing-trade;
But, ah! not always will success ensue,
Fortune will cross us, though we strive to do;
Such fate our honest lad will often share,
In spite of labour and unceasing care:
Oh! then he gazes, fraught with mental pain,
Upon the inauspicious empty Seine;

For labour thus he'll oft no produce get,
And whilst in silence he overhauls the net,
A stifled sigh perhaps his bosom heaves,
Not for his own, his mother's wants he grieves;
And pensive thus awhile remains his breast,
Till something whispers:—All is for the best:
Now 'gins to dissipate fell sorrow's cloud,
While reason's offspring on his fancy crow'd.
“All's right,” says Ned, “for it is understood
“No ill proceeds from God, who does all good;
“So if to sin I never feel inclin'd,
“Why need I fear the Lord should prove unkind.”
Thus having argu'd, then a pause ensues,
When thus the boy his train of thought pursues:

“What though this day hath brought no good: from “thence
“May I not hope the morrow's recompence;
“And should the morrow fail, is there not still
“A third day for the great Almighty's will,
“Besides, of Buckborn there's yet on the shelf
“A plenteous store for mother and myself;
“Then why repine, of hunger none e'er die,
“Who labour hard, and place their trust on high.”
Conviction instant flash'd on little Ned,
“Forgive me, God:”—he sigh'd, and hung his head.
Ah! would such simple reason did but rule
All men—and not the jargon of a school—

Disputes no longer would perplex the mind,
But one true standard govern all mankind:
Logic would yield its powers to common sense,
As reason governs ruling providence.