THE GIRL-WIND

A hurly-burly, hurl-wind

Is hurrying o’ er the waves;

Before it runs the Girl-wind

Fresh up from the Ocean caves.

She’ s the little puff who goes before

To tell of the blow that’ s coming,

She sounds like a hive when winters o’ er

And you hear the bees a-humming.

It’ s all very well when a young girl can

Come tripping along with laughter;

But not so nice when you see the old man

With a big stick coming after.

It’ s just the same with Everything

When pleasure runs before us,

You drink your wine and think it’ s fine:—

Then comes the tavern scoreus!

So we went forth upon our different ways —

And these were wide — to many a distant shore:

I to my home to put in form these lays,

And think upon this strange wild sailor-lore,

In which, to him who reads with generous heart,

As in a museum we seem to see

The strangest relics gathered far apart —

Rude, coarse, and rough, yet touched with poetry;

Like shells and gems and coins of olden time,

And worthless stones, all hardened in a mass,

Such as I’ ve seen, fished from the ocean’ s slime,

Such are these men and melodies — alas!

They all are of an age half past away.

Where is the boatswain now?— who hears his call?

And where these sailing packets once so gay?

I to myself do seem traditional

And all my youth a legend — so to say —

Yet well or ill I’ ve done the best I could

To make in truthful song a little show

Of quaint old tales, now little understood,

Of the North End of Boston — long ago.