I first ran across a reference to this old sailor-poet in John Masefield's A SAILOR'S GARLAND (although he referred to him as "A. F. Brady"), p. xxi. Brady was based for much of his life in Australia and was a contemporary and good friend of the poet Henry Lawson. Brady had an early love for all things nautical as a boy which continued throughout his life. However, he never actually worked as crew on commercial sailing ships. He did work as a time-keeper on the Sydney docks which put him in close contact with the stevedores and sailors. He later worked as a journalist, editing several socialist newspapers. I'll be posting what I consider some of his more interesting nautical poems here. Other poems by Brady may be reviewed at the Oldpoetry website: Click here for website!

Many of his poems could be adapted for singing, I'm sure.

The first poem is a splendid diatribe by an old shellback about landlubbers leading songs about the sea in the music halls ashore:

By Edwin J. Brady
From THE WAYS OF MANY WATERS, by Edwin J. Brady, published by The Bulletin Newspaper Co., Sydney, Australia, © 1899, pp. 28-34.


SAILOR-MAN

'ARF a pint for me, old party -- thank'ee, mister -- 'ere's yer 'ealth --
'Opes y'll live to be a nundred; 'opes yer luck'll bring y'u wealth;
Mine ain't bin as good as might be -- never knowed a syler yet,
When 'is days o' leave was over, as could even go a wet.
Ship's yer 'ouse and 'ome an' country; 'tween 'er ports 'tis graft and go;
Ain't no chanst o' findin' nuggets, ain't no chanst to save, ye know;
Come ashore red 'ot an' thusty,
Sick o' sea, an salt, an' rusty,
Cheque is bust on beer an' wimmen -- ship again, an' cuss an' go
Junk an' biskit,
'Loft an' risk it --
Oh, it's grand to sail the "hoshun"--
"Yah, merrily me lads, yo ho!"

'Oly Smoke! They gives a concert in the Seamen's 'All, one night,
An' I goes an' takes a lydy -- real lydy -- square an' strite!
'Ears a joker rise a chanty 'bout the bloomin' "Hoshun Wyve,"
'Ears a gal a-singin' mournful of the "Lonely Syler's Gryve;"
Then a bloke comes up an' tells 'em of a "Little Midshipmite,"
Which for Queen and Hingland's 'oner shed 'is gore an' won the fight.
Looks at Poll, an' finds 'er cryin',
When that bloomin' kid is dyin',
In a sad an' tragic manner, in "the middle watch at night" --
Drivel, drivel,
Sobs an' snivel,
Gals with pocket-wipes a-weepin', woman faintin' on the right.

"Cheese it, mate!" I sez, "it's orful," reachin' for me bloomin' 'at;
"Life upon the bloomin' hoshun ain't a blessed bit like that!"
"'Ush! "sez Poll, "the folks'll 'ear yer," an' she snivels an' she jaws
'Coz I would n't clap for "Anchor" or weigh in with the'r applause.
W'en I ups an' tells that joker as 'ad come aloft to sing
That he didn't know 'is business -- w'y, they 'owled like anything!
An' me bloomin' 'at got busted,
An' I left the 'all disgusted;
Poll, she swore she would n't 'ave me, an' she gev me back me ring --
Gin an' sorrer --
Ships to-morrer,
Leaves the blarsted port a-cussin' like "a sea-burd on the wing."

An' they tells me that them jokers gets as much as twenty quid
For a song like that ere ditty of the dyin' sailor kid!
Now, I never knowed a 'prentice as was given to expire
Like a sang-win-airy 'ero w'en 'is bloomin' ship took fire;
But I've known 'em play the devil with the morals of a crew;
I could also tell a story of the sinful things they do --
'Ow they chaws an' spits terbakker,
'Ow they does the dirty yakker;
'Ow they washes decks o' mornin's on the "boosom o' the blue;"
'Ow they damns 'er and they blarsts 'er,
An' 'er owner an' 'er master,
With the wind a-makin' music an' the bo's'n pipin' through.

No, 'e'd never been a 'prentice, 'ad the cove who did the song,
Or 'e would n't try to come it quite so (sang-win-airy) strong;
'E 'ad never 'ad the pleasure of a trip from Puget Sound
With a gory lumber cargo, an' a chanst o' gettin' drowned,
'E 'ad never sailed, I'm thinkin' -- or 'e'd cuss that 'e was born --
With a (sang-win-airy) Scotchman round the (sang-win-airy) Horn,
With a slop-made suit o' close on
An' 'is fingers stiff and frozen,
With the ice upon the gaskets an' her canvas ripped and torn.
If 'e'd 'ad to shorten sail
In a good Antarctic gale,
'E'd a-sung another ditty of "A Syler's Life Forlorn."

'E'd a-sung a diff'rent ditty if 'e'd 'ad to tackle junk
In the harness-tub a-churnin' in the tropics till she stunk;
If 'e'd 'ad to pick the weevils from the biskit an' be glad
That it wa' n't to pick the biskit from the weevils that 'e 'ad;
'E'd a-told a touchin' story of a cove as died on land
With a fig o' black terbaccer or a whisky in 'is 'and.
For, concernin' graft an' vittles,
'T ain't exsactly beer and skittles
With the able-bodied joker on the "mighty hoshun grand" --
On the "deep an' vasty hoshun,"
With its cargo of emoshun,
An' its "martyrs" servin' for'ard an' its "'eroes" in command.

'Oly Smoke! I meets the skipper of a bloomin' church one day,
An' sez he, "My syler-brother, do y' ever kneel an' pray?
W'en the tempest's ragin' round y' -- "'ere 'e drops 'is bloomin' breath,
An' 'is voice gets deep an' sollum -- "do y' ever think o' death?"
"Garn!" sez I, "you ain't bin sailin' in a gory gale," sez I,
"Or," sez I, "you would n't ast me such a foolish question: w'y,
It's pipe 'em up like monkeys,
If the Old Man is n't drunk, 'e's
On the poop a-cussin' dreadful and a-damnin' low an' 'igh;"
"Pull away, ye sons o' thunder!" --
Divin' in and decks 'alf under --
"Send all 'ands aloft an' ease 'er" -- "Pass the order on!" . . . "Aye, aye."

Then that parson-cove 'e tells me 'ow a cove as fell from grace
Would 'ave lots o' 'eat an' torment in the other (crimson) place;
'Ow the Christyun bloke was sailin' on the stormy sea o' life,
An' 'e ought to feel right thankful for 'is sorrers an' 'is strife;
'Ow the likker was Ole Satan, an' the t'other kinds o' sin
Kept a feller out of 'Eving w'en 'e wanted to get in.
So I see 'is good intention,
An I did n't want to mention
That I'd like to back "Temptation" an' the "vile a-cussed gin,"
An' be certain sure to win it,
For a "Christyun soul" ain't in it
With one night ashore in fifty an' a little bit o' tin.

'Arf-a-pint again, an' thankee! ...'Ere's good luck to you an' me!
May y'u never 'ave to yakker as a qualified A. B.
May y'u never be a syler of the mercantile marine,
Or y'u'll always be a syler, an' y'u'll never 'ave a bean.
Oh, yer Jack the king of all, sir, 'fore yer bloomin' stuff is spent;
Yer a drunken syler feller w'en 'er sails is bein' bent;
But it's round the world a-goin,
With the ebbin' an' the flowin',
An' y'u needn't fear the bailiff, an' y'u need n't pay no rent;
There's a month or two at sea,
Then a rattlin', roarin' spree . . .
An' I dunno if I left it that I'd ever be content!

Notes:

"Dirty Yakker" is slang for "the hard work"

Cheerily,
Charley Noble