Subject: RE: The Advent and Development of Chanties
From:
Gibb Sahib
Date: 30 Sep 11 - 05:56 PM
1894 Burn Murdoch, W.G. _From Edinburgh to the Antarctic._ London: Longmans, Green and Co.
During the Dundee Antarctic Expedition of 1892-93. Barque BALAENA.
Passenger/observer notes several instances of chanties. He spells the word two ways: "shantie" and "chantie". I believe the experiences were genuine, however he seems to utilize Davis/Tozer to "refresh" his memory of the chanties.
[WHISKEY JOHNNY]
//
Men and boys there were of every sailor type: old Arctic whalers, red cheeked and bearded; tanned South Spainers with shaven chins and faces lined with the rough and smooth; quiet men and boys from the East Coast fishing villages, and gentle men from the Shetlands. Fifty men from all the world; strangers an hour ago, brothers now—in the one spirit of whisky, devilment, and adventure.
What a picture they made as they swung together at the topsail halyards, their eyes gleaming, with open, thirsty mouths shouting the old shantie, 'Whis—ky John — nie. Oh—whisky makes the life of man. Whis—ky for—my Johnnie,' with the shantie man's solo, 'Oh, whisky made me pawn my clothes,' and all together again, with a double haul and a shout of 'Whis—ky—John—nie,' that makes the blood tingle even to remember it.
//
[MR. STORMALONG]
//
A Danish ship passed us to-day; she came up from leeward, passed under our stern, and faded out of sight in a veil of mist ahead of us and to windward. She was sailing quite two points closer than we could. She had a windmill working her pump, an arrangement much despised by our sailors—without reason, I think, as it saves an immense amount of work. We have to pump ship every four hours, and it takes about ten minutes each time. After heavy weather and the ship has been straining we have to pump her for about half an hour out of each watch. The pump stands at the foot of the mainmast inside the fife-rail, and has a handle on either side; some of the watch turn the hands and the rest stand in a line along the deck and haul on a rope attached to the pump handle each time it comes up. As we pump, the chantie (pronounced shanty) man trolls out some old sea song, and after each line all hands join in the refrain. Some of our men have a large stock of these songs. Most of them are sung to sad, minor tunes, with sometimes almost meaningless, but time-honoured words. The airs have much of the dignity of early Norse and Gaelic tunes, quite unlike any modern music ; when and where they originated I should like well to know. Here is one of them that the men sung frequently. It refers to some ideal skipper, beloved by his crew, who had died and gone to his rest a long time ago. [w/ score]
Oh, Stormie's gone, the good old man.
Aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong.
Oh, Stormie's gone, that good old man,
To be with you Stormalong.
We dug his grave with a golden spade,
Aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong;
His shroud of finest silk was made,
To be with you, Storm-along.
We lowered him with a silver chain,
Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm-along;
Our eyes were dim with more than rain,
To be with you, Storm-along.
And now he lies in an earthen bed,
Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm-along;
Our hearts are sore, our eyes are red,
To be with you, Storm-along.
Old Stormie heard the Angel call,
Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm-along;
So sing his dirge now one and all,
To be with you, Storm-along.
Think of this very slowly chanted, in time to the clank of the pump, the waves surging over the decks, sky and sea grey, and the wind booming through the shrouds overhead, and you have as dreary a scene as can well be pictured.
//
The [DEAD HORSE] ceremony is described.
//
OCTOBER 6th.—Lat. 30.30 ; long. 20.4. Old Horse day.
The cat's wind has held fair, and the Balaena, with a white feather in her teeth, bowls merrily southward.
The Old Horse came out in great style. The sailors consider that they do their first month's work at sea for nothing, having received the month's pay in advance when they signed articles, and the old horse is made an emblem of this month, and is hanged. I fail to see the analogy between an old horse and an unpaid month's work, but I am told that it is quite evident. However, I relate the incident as I saw it. It may be a custom of the past in a few years, for the reason that men are now trying to have their wages paid weekly. They would like to have a portion of their first pay handed them in advance, and would like their wives to receive their half pay in weekly, instead of in monthly, instalments. There are several other regulations they wish to have formed as to their pay; for instance, that in case of shipwreck, they should receive pay up to date of reaching home, or at least till they make land, or a port. If we were to lose this ship in the Antarctic and lived in the boats or on the ice for a month or so, and then had the good fortune to be picked up by one of our companion vessels and brought home alive, the men would only be entitled to claim pay up to the moment the ship went down, and instead of returning with their pockets full of money, they would arrive in debt to their employers for the cost of their board on the vessel that took them home, whilst the owners by insurance might lose nothing, and might even profit by the wreck. This seems hardly a considerate arrangement in regard to the men; and if employers would still be employers, they ought to be very considerate in this respect, or the time will come for sailors to work for their united interest, and the consideration of the employers will be of no account.
For some days reports have come aft from the focsle that the horse was being constructed. When I heard an unfamiliar song being chanted this afternoon, I went forward and found the men hauling on two lines that led down to the focsle-hatch. At the end of the lines came the dummy horse, made of wood and canvas, bestrode by Braidy, arrayed in a scarlet flannel jacket and a black jockey's cap. The horse was supported on either side and at its latter end by some of the old hands. As the hatch is very steep, they had some difficulty in hauling up the horse and its rider properly and in time to the chant. At last they got him on deck and then began a slow march round the ship, going aft on the starboard side, round the poop, and forward again by the port side. The procession really made a splendid picture-subject, the colouring of the men's clothes in the sunlight was so varied and so harmonious; there was faded blue, and purple, and pale green, and a sky-blue Tam-o'-Shanter, and all the faces and arms were dyed nut-brown by the sun. In the middle of the group sat Braidy in his scarlet coat, with the brown unpainted wood of the bulwarks and the blue sea above forming a back-ground. Round the deck they went singing 'The Old Horse,' chanting the time-honoured song with all solemnity, making the old horse plunge at times, for they had to pull it along the deck in short jerks to keep time to the tune. In the lee channels the sea was frothing white, and I thought Braidy would come off, for the horse grew very restive there; but he held to its neck.
Under the foreyard the procession halted, and a running bowline was dropped over the horse's head, and Braidy got off, and to a second mournful chant it was hauled up to the yard's-arm. It was a curious, quaint, and pretty performance; the solemn seriousness of the whole affair and the suppressed childish fun were in extreme contrast. For a minute the horse hung swinging against the bright sky, then a man lay out along the yard and drew his knife across the line, and the 'Poor Old Horse' dropped with a splash into the blue waves and floated sadly astern: These are some of the words of the song, and the air as nearly as I can remember it.
THE OLD HORSE [w/ score]
They say my horse is dead and gone,
And they say so, and they hope so!
They say my horse is dead and gone;
Oh, poor old man!
For one long month I rode him hard,
And they say so, and they hope so!
For one long month I rode him hard;
Oh, poor old man!
But if he's dead I 'll bury him low,
And they say so, and they hope so!
But if he's dead I'll bury him low;
Oh, poor old man!
Then drop him to the depths of the sea,
And they say so, and they hope so!
Then drop him to the depths of the sea;
Oh, poor old man!
//
[REUBEN RANZO]
//
Now a chantie is started as the crew haul on the main topsail halyards. Lately the chanties have been few, and half drowned by the racket of the storm and hail-showers; but this morning there is a ring of triumph in the hearty voices, and the white sails that have been imprisoned so long seem to signal to the gale as they unfurl that we have beaten it, and are ready to face it again.
It is a new chantie to me, this old song, which one of our harpooneers trolls out—sung in the ark, probably, when Noah hauled in the gangway. Marshall has an endless stock of these chanties, and brings out a new one when we get tired of the last.
Chantie man: Ran-zo was a tailor,
All together: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
Chantie man: Now he's called a sailor,
All together: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
The skipper was a dandy,
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
And was too fond of Brandy,
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
They call him now a sailor!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
The master of a whaler!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
There is a fine sudden ring in the chorus that goes well with the wind and squalls. 'Belay,' shouts the mate, and the crew repeat' belay,' and the chantie stops in the middle of a Ran-zo.
//
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