1900        Patterson, J.E. "Sailors' Work Songs." _Good Words_ 41(28) (June 1900): 391-397.

The century has turned, and here is a substantial article devoted to chanties, in a British publication. This may be the first chanty article to include the idea of "folk-songs," but it does not call chanties them, only compares them, as folklore. The author reckons that most laypeople are not familiar with chanties.

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That the deep-water sailor—as is termed the one who keeps to far-going sailing vessels —has a song for almost every piece of work wherein four to a dozen men are engaged is probably news to thousands who can claim to have been beyond the shores of this "right little, tight little island." Aboardship these songs are known by the name of "chanties"—which is, in all probability, either a sailor's pluralising of our word "chant," or a corruption of the French "chanson."
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We are taken through a mock sequence or where and what chanties might be used, with illustrations. Joe Stead came out with an album that did this sort of sequential outward/homeward bound thing. I could swear there was another writer who followed this pattern though, but I can't remember who.

First there is SANTIANA at the capstan for warping out of the dock.

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We will take a set of these songs in order, as on a voyage, and begin with the crew on their turning-to after joining the ship in the East India Dock. The command has come to move her to the lockpit; the mate passes it forward; the bo'sun yells it in at the fo'c'sle doorway, and the men—all in some degree sober—appear on deck. The shore-boatmen pull away with the line; it is made fast to a bollard on the quay, its in-board part taken to the capstan; the bars are shipped, and round we go—sullenly, for this is the initial note of some eighteen months' comparative isolation. Then the bo'sun—that connecting link between men and officers—cries out, "A song, boys, a song! Come, isn't there a 'chanty-man' in the crowd?" In response a negro—he being of a livelier temperament than his white shipmates, despite the fitting melancholy air of his farewell—begins:—

We're on the plains of Mexico, 

(Chorus.) Away Santa Anna!
We're on the plains of Mexico 
   
Hurrah for Santa Anna!
Santa Anna fought his way, 

All on the plains of Mexico;
Santa Anna gained the day. 
   
Hurrah for Santa Anna!

How Santa Anna came to be spoken of in a masculine sense is a mystery that cannot be solved by the writer, in spite of the considerable time he has spent in endeavouring to arrive at the sources of these old work-songs. In the chorus all men at the capstan join. In "chanties" proper never more than three, generally but one or two, lines are sung by the soloist. As may be expected, the airs, like the words, are of a shoddy kind. Very often the singer will introduce lines of his own making, either out of conceit, or because he has forgotten the acknowledged ones; yet the chorus ever remains the same. Rarely does it happen that, however moody the men commence a piece of work, if a song be started they do not finish it lustily, and in a better frame of mind.
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(Evidently s/he didn't know about the General DE Santa Anna!) Treats variation as conceit or memory lapse – rather than the idea that one is *supposed* to vary the text. Next comes DREADNAUGHT.

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Now, while more of the above has been sung—capstan and hauling "chanties " being usually of a considerable length—the vessel has shortened-in her heaving line. Here the end is taken to the lock-head; the bars are again manned, and—this time from a British throat—we move around to the old balladlike tune of:

"Tis of a flash packet of bully-boy fame;
She sails from the Mersey, and the Dreadnought's her name,
(Chorus). Bound away, bound away!
She sails from the Mersey, where the broad waters flow;
Then away to the west'ard, oh God let her go!
Bound away, bound away, where the stormy winds blow;
She's a Liverpool packet—oh, God let her go!
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For fore topsail halyards, it's WHISKEY JOHNNY:

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By the time the "Dreadnought " is concluded, the ship is taken in tow, her tug-boat being of a large and powerful make; for clippers, unless the breeze be a steady easterly one, are usually towed well down Channel. We will suppose that the wind is fair. The lower topsails are loosed and sheeted home; the foresail and lower staysails follow; then all hands—cook included—man the fore-topsail halyards, the "chanty-man" standing up and pulling on the downward part with the second or third officer, and we get:

Whisky is the life of man,
(Chorus.) Whisky, Johnny! *
[*With this word, and at every recurrence of it, all pull together.]
Whisky is the life of man, 

Whisky for me, Johnny!
Whisky made me go to sea,
Whisky, Johnny!

Whisky made me go to sea,
Whisky for me, Johnny!

If the singer be of the common order he will here tell what he would do were the ocean made of whisky; how, if he had a "whisky-shop," he would hang it on a halyard-block and haul the men up to it; and more of the same kind until the mate cries "Belay!" But occasionally a man will give the remainder of this song its proper version —that is, the evil of its subject.
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"Proper version"?
Next, RIO GRANDE at the main topsail halyards. The form is modified accordingly.

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After the fore, the main-topsail will be hoisted, and with the work we shall probably hear another outward-bound ditty, such as:
Oh, where are you going to, my yaller gal?
(Chorus.) Away to Rio! [All pull together.]
Oh, where are you bound to, bully-boys all?
We're bound to the Rio Grande! [Pull.]
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Here then, comes the heaving form:

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The above is also used as a windlass "chanty" when heaving up the anchor to leave home. The wording then generally runs:
Oh, where are you bound to, sailor boys all?
(Chorus.) Heave-o, Rio I
Oh, where are you bound to jolly Jack-tars? 
      
We're bound to the Rio Grande! 
   
Then it's heave-o, Rio! heave-o, Rio! 
   
And fare you well, my bonny young girl, 
   
For we're bound to the Rio Grande!
Oh, what to do there, my sailor-boys all?
       Heave o, Rio! 

Oh, what do you there, my jolly Jack-tars? 

In that far-away Rio Grande?
Then it's heave-o, Rio! &c.

After a stanza on the fever, this song goes on to say what the vessel will load according to probability—how she will return home, and what the "sailor-boys" will do on arrival—if they live to come back; and its air is as near as can be that of the independent milkmaid, whose face was her fortune.
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In the next passage, SACRAMENTO seems to be used for sweating-up. Weird form.

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Thus the heavy sails are set, and lighter ones follow; the tow-line is cast off; England's white cliffs fade away astern, as the sun sinks below the horizon ahead; night comes down, with its vague fear for the new voyager's heart, its commonplaceness to the ocean's wanderers, and we are alone to do our business on the waters. Now day slips by on the heels of night; night goes as uneventfully after it; they stretch into weeks; the breeze freshens, and we taughten halyards to the somewhat lively tune of "The Banks of Sacramento" the first part being:

Now, my lads, get your beds and lie down,
[Chorus.) With a hoo-dah! [All pull together.]
Now, my lads, get your beds and lie down, 
      
With a hoo-dah, hoodah-o! [Pull.]
Blow, boys, blow for Californio,
       With a hoo-dah! 

There's plenty of gold, so I've been told, 

On the banks of Sacramento,
With a hoo-dah, hoo-dah-o!
We came to the river where we couldn't get 
across,
       With a hoo-dah! 

And the plenty of gold, as you'll now be told, 

Was a bully, bully, bully loss.
With a hoo-dah, hoo-dah-o!
The third line of this last stanza gives a good idea of what is to follow.
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MR. STORMALONG for pumping:

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Here let us suppose that the weight of wind increases so that we must shorten sail. Later on it freshens, breaks into a gale, and we are soon afterwards lying-to under a reefed maintopsail. Then, as the ship is found to be slightly leaking, we man the pump-wheels while we sing:

Storm along, and round we go,
[Chorus.) To me way storm along!
Storm along, and round she'll go,
To me hi-hi-hi, Mister StormalongI
Storm along through frost and snow,
   To me way storm along!
Storm along through frost and snow,
To me hi-hi-hi, Mister Stormalong!

The above is succeeded by a piece of flattery paid to the personified storm. Next, the singer works in the style of how he would have a ship built, rigged and manned; how he would feed the men on "cake sand wine," what he would load her with, and the wonderful places to which they would sail. By this it will be seen that one with sufficient imagination and flow of words can draw out the pump-song into an interesting ditty, and if he has the gift of satire—which is usually his in some crude form—he will indirectly let the officers know how they should comport themselves and govern the vessel.
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SALLY BROWN at halliards:

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However, the breeze slackens; more canvas is needed, and the topsails again go up, the first to the lively strains of:
Sally Brown is a nice old lady,
(Chorus.) Away-aye, roll and go! [All pull together.]
Sally Brown is a nice old lady,
Spend my money on Sally Brown! [Pull.]
Sally, Sally, why don't you marry? 
   
Away-aye, roll and go! &c.
The remainder tells how "for seven long years they have been a-courting," and that Sally will not marry until he stops on shore to work by the dock-side.
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BLOW BOYS BLOW:

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Then, on the next set of halyards, this song is most likely followed by:
Blow, my boys - I long to hear you—
(Chorus.) Blow, boys, blow I [Pull.]
Blow, my boys—I long to hear you—
Blow, boys, bully boys, blow! [Pull.]
A Yankee ship came down the river,
    Blow, boys, blow!

Oh, how do you know she's a Yankee clipper?
Blow, boys, bully boys blow!
Here "Blow, boys, blow" develops into a description of the differences in food and appearance that marks the American from the British vessel, and is often made to contain some arrant nonsense.
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JOHNNY BOWKER and BOWLINE:

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Now we find the wind has gone ahead, and brace up our yards, then flatten the sheets as we chant:
Little Johnny Boker, what made you go to sea?
(Chorus.) Do, my Johnny Boker, do! [Pull.]
Little Johnny Boker, in Liverpool you ought to be,
Do, my Johnny Boker, do!
This, too, has more stanzas, though sung to no other kind of work. But the officer has cried "Make fast !" which we do and leave it. Then, as the mainsail is shaking in the wind, we reeve a bowline and shout:

The bully ship's a-rolling,
(Chorus.) Haul away the bowline! [Pull.]
Its a-raining and a-snowing, a-snowing, a-snowing; 

It's a-raining and a-snowing,
The bowline haul! [pull.]
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Bunting to PADDY DOYLE:

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Thus is the outward passage made. The anchor is dropped at, say Garden Reach, below Calcutta; and while the heavy sails are being rolled on to their yards the banks of the Hoogly resound with:
Aye, aye—aye, aye, and we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!
Aye, aye—aye, aye, and we'll have no slop-chest suits!
At the end of each line the sail is bunted a little higher, until it finally rests on the yard. The foregone is given entire, and is evidently the shortest song, good or otherwise, in our language. Its first half seems to hint of some Irish shoe-maker who was paid for his boots with the tiller-rope, or with a "stern course," i.e., not paid; while the second half refers to the inferior clothing sold at high rates by most captains.
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ROLLING HOME at the windlass. I believe this is the first attribution of "Rolling Home" to a work task in the literature. Luce, in 1902 (i.e. after this article), adds that it could be used as a chanty, but in his earlier edition, not so. Come to think of it, the same seems to be true with "The Dreadnaught," which is only first here called a chanty, if I'm not mistaken.

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Then comes the weighing of the anchor to return home, naturally a joyous day; a day when every hand goes lightly to its work, and scarcely feels tired when night and "all sails set" put an end to the long task. Now we all warm to our work on the windlass-bars, and in the crowd there is barely a heart that does not swell as the links come in to the words:

Pipe all hands to man the windlass, 

See your cables stowed all clear:
We to-day set sail from India, 

And for English shores we'll steer.
(Chorus.) Rolling home, rolling home.
Rolling home across the sea; 

Rolling home to dear old England, 

Rolling home, sweetheart, to thee.
If you all heave with a will, boys, 

Soon our anchors we will trip;
And we'll cross the briny ocean 

In our good and gallant ship. 
         
Chorus.

Of the above there are but eight more lines. It is one of the very few "chanties" without nonsense of some kind, and it is best rendered when divided between the watches, one watch singing the stanzas, and the other the chorus. Unless the cable has been previously shortened in, one song will not last till the anchor is apeak. Thus "Rolling Home " will probably be followed by "Roll the Cotton Down "—a "chanty" that is only suitable for capstan and windlass work, and is a great favourite with the negro cotton-stowers on the Mississippi—or "The Australian Girl," or "Bound to Western Australia," which are also heaving "chanties" only.
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That last bit was a doozy. So, a chanty "without nonsense," eh? Again the author shows his preference/bias. When he mentions ROLL THE COTTON DOWN, he must mean the version with the grand chorus (i.e. "Roll the cotton, Moses!). This is the first published mention I remember seeing of this chanty, in any case. He speaks in present tense about the cotton-stowers of New Orleans. This info is unique. I don't recognize 'The Australian Girl," but should we assume the other is SOUTH AUSTRALIA?

Seems to mess up on REUBEN RANZO:

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Next, when the tug-boat leaves us off the long and dangerous Hoogly, we spread our canvas for home under such lusty airs as:
Sing a song of Ranzo. boys, 

(Chorus.) Ranzo, boys, Ranzo! [Pull.]
Sing a song of Ranzo, boys,
Sing a song of Ranzo! [Pull.]
Ranzo took a notion to cross the briny ocean,
Ranzo boys, Ranzo!
He was a New York tailor, but he thought he'd be a sailor.
Sing a song of Ranzo!

Thus night and day, in foul weather and fine, fore and aft, the work is made light by songs which have a long and curious history, yet are barely dreamt of outside the life that keeps them alive. But, like all else, they must die, and the beginning of their death has begun. The modern spirit, its materialism, stress, and poor dignity are silencing them in small ships; while the same added to the power of steam-winches for raising top sails, anchors and the like, are killing these old ditties even in the descendants, so to write, of the once famous "Black Ball liners."

Warping into dock, w/ LEAVE HER JOHNNY:

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Here, completing our voyage, we will—for variety's sake—suppose her to have been an unpleasant vessel, and warp her into dock while singing:
Leave her, Johnny, leave her,
(Chorus) Leave her Johnny! [Pull.]
Now we'll sing you a farewell song, 

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! [Pull.]
Leave her, Johnny leave her,
Leave her, Johnny!
Pack your bags and go on shore,
For it's time for you to leave her!
Leave her, Johnny, leave, her
Leave her, Johnny

For the grub was bad, and the wages low.
So it's time for you to leave her!
Leave her, Johnny, leave her,
Leave her, Johnny!
For the mate's a terror, and the "old man"'s worse.
So it's time for you to leave her!

Now, with our bags on our shoulders, we bid her good-bye, knowing her to be as good as many, and better than some, and rather regretfully picturing the day when an old negro was allowed to sit and fiddle to the "chanty-singers."
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I don't understand the last phrase!