I came across this the other night, and really liked it. It's in a Dover book called Victorian Parlour Poetry (Edited by Michael R. Turner, 1967). The poem is by George R. Sims, who also wrote the better-known Christmas in the Workhouse.
-Joe-
The Lifeboat
(George R. Sims)
- Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough.
- When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls rough!
- It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves run in and break
- On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to shake;
- When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his breath
- As he hears the cry for the lifeboat -- his summons maybe to death --
- That's when we call it rough, sir; but, if we can get her afloat,
- There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat.
- You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year?
- Yon be the rock she struck on -- the boat as went out be here;
- The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had,
- And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad.
- The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, sir, then
- Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men.
- The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered,
- But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered.
- Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives,
- But death that night looked certain -- and our wives be only wives:
- Their lot ain't bright at the best,sir; but here, when the man lies dead,
- 'Taint only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread;
- So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay --
- I only heard on it after, for that night I was kept away.
- I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end,
- She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothing 'ud make her mend.
- The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed,
- With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be stayed.
- I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form,
- And though of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' storm;
- The wreck of my little homestead -- the wreck of my dear old wife,
- Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of life,
- And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbour lights,
- To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights.
- She knew she was sinkin' quickly -- she knew as her end was nigh,
- But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie,
- For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son --
- He'd got into trouble in London as lots o' lads ha' done;
- Then he'd bolted his masters told us -- he was allus what folks call wild.
- From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled.
- We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went,
- And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent.
- I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse,
- So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and worse.
- And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands,
- I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands.
- She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide,
- And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to side;
- Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-bye?
- It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die."
- I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek,
- And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak,
- When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside
- With the news that the boat was launchin'. "You're wanted!" their leader cried.
- "You've never refused to go, John; you'll put these cowards right.
- There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our hands tonight!"
- 'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain; he'd laughed at the women's doubt.
- We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out.
- I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed --
- "I can't go, mate," I murmured; "in an hour she may be dead.
- I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."
- As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was thrown;
- And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me,
- While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea.
- Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, "Go, and God's will be done!
- For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son."
- Her head was full of the boy, sir -- she was thinking, maybe, some day
- For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away.
- "Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you! and spare me to see the light,
- And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the storm tonight."
- Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears,
- And my mates outside,when the saw me, set up three hearty cheers;
- But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said,
- "I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea give up its dead.":
- We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in view
- And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through;
- But our boat she stood in bravely, and, weary and wet and weak,
- We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek.
- But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll,
- And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul!
- We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark --
- But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark.
- I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry,
- And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dashed by;
- I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then
- I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben.
- I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more
- Till I came to my senses here, sir -- here, in my home ashore.
- My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed --
- I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rulluck had struck my head.
- Then my mates came in and whispered; they'd heard I was comin' round.
- At first I could scarcely hear 'em. it seemed like a buzzin' sound;
- But as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em speak,
- I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long, week.
- I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old shipmate's sake.
- So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, "Look here!
- I'm able to bear it now, lad -- tell me, and never fear."
- Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out,
- And the others slinks away like, and I say, "What's this about?
- Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead?"
- Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head;
- I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry "John!"
- And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon;
- For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was my wife.
- And who do ye think was with her? Why Jack, as large as life.
- It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat went
- To the wreck of the Royal Helen; 'twas that as the vision meant.
- They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed,
- And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead;
- And mother and son together had nursed me back to life,
- And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife.
- Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled him through --
- He's allus the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew.
- George R. Sims