A Cornish haul

Down along to Fore Street, a’most any day,
Inside a winder peepin’on the Kay,
Ole Tom Trevinnick be workin’ away,
	Makin’ an’ mendin’.

Be ‘ee a passin’ he do wish ‘ee well,
But ‘ee abidin’ he’m for a spell,
He’ve such a mort o’ tales to tell,
	An’ yarns unendin’.

Sometimes he sets on a stool an’ sews
Stiff say boots with copper lined toes,
Us do see him there with his nose,
Over ‘em bendin’.

When he’m a hammerin’ he do sing,
Hymns to make the slats to spring,
“Tis Glory to God” an’ “The Heavenly King”
	An’ “Saints ascendin’.”

Sunday he’m on the Circuit plan;
He praiches good as a passun can;
He tells ‘ee straight as man to man,
	An’ no pretendin’.

He sez as how our souls get thin
With racketin’ round on the Stones o’ Sin,
An’ how God drives His sharp awl in,
	To do His mendin’.

‘Tisn’ in a stockin’ his treasure be stored,
But he be a-layin’ up a heavenly hoard,
Allays for men an’ men’s Good Lord
	Makin’ an’ mendin’

He sez he’m workin’ till God’s bell tolls,
Solin’ an’ heelin’ an healin’ souls.
An’ then he’m goin’ where the Big Tide rolls
	To joys unendin’.

A Sou’ Sou’ West was blowin’ up to more than half a gale,
An’ a prutty bit o’ billow talked ashore,
But there baint no use for seiners as be afeared to sail,
When the catches have been runnin’ light an’ poor, -
		So we plugged out oar to oar.
	Out along from old Mevagissey, O, -
	Beatin’ out from old Mevagissey, O, -
	With a sky full o’ scud blowin’ over us,
	An’ a stiddy brazzle plonkin’ at the bow.

We shut the seine, an’ watched the light a-dancin’ green an’ red,
An’ wallowed first to starboard, then to port,
Until the dimsey touched the West, an’ we was slowin’ dead,
An’ then we knawed ‘twas tummals we had caught,
		For the corks was bobbin’ short.
	Out along from old Mevagissey, O, -
	Low lay old Mevagissey, O, -
	When the grey dawn showed the shadows over us,
	And the brazzle came a lippin’ at the bow.

We lugged the silver net aboard until the bilge was hid,
For crates was little use for such a haul,
An’ then we let the main sheet go, an’ borne along we slid,
With the hellum nearly buried in a squall,
		But we didn’t care at all.
	For ‘twas home to old Mevagissy, O, -
	Back along to old Mevagissey, O, -
	With the dangers of the night blown over us,
	An’ a MILLION PILCHERS slitherin’ below.

We tacked into the harbour with the ground-say grinding hard,
An’ we bumped to berth at last ‘longside the Kay,
Which was chockered  up with barrels so you couldn’t step a yard,
When we brought our shinin’ harvest from the say: - 
		Now ‘tis salt an’ stawed away.
	An we’m home in old Mevagissey, O, -
	Home again in old Mevagissey, O, -
	With the cloud o’ winter care blown over us,
	Whatever winter winds may blow.

We picks up bits o’ wreckage,
From Pentire to Port Quin,
An’ longshore to Tregardock
Sad store be washin’ in.

‘Tis planks an’ crates an’ life belts
An’ bits o’ shattered spar,
Come whishtly in to mind us
That we be set to war.

Off shore about the Channel
The boats go east an’ west;
In shore we’m busy fishin’
The grounds we know the best.

The farmer saves his harvest,
The childer happy play,
It seems as foes an’ fightin’
Must all be far away.

But bits o’ wreck come tellin’
That while so safe we be,
There’s death an’ turble danger
Awaitin’ in the sea.

*******
O may the Lord of sailors,
Whose watches never cease,
Guide them thro’ all the dangers
Into the Port of Peace.

Gallopin’ Joe be the fancy name us calls him in the Port,
Tho’ ‘tisn’ for looks he’ve got the name, he baint the hurryin’ sort;
He’m lastest out an’ lastest home when us do launch an’ haul,
Exceptin’ when he be so last he he doesn’ start at all.
	“Steady an’ slow be the way to go,
	All the cleverest folk do know,
	That’s my motto,” sez Gallopin’ Joe.

His jersey be a packet of holes, but that don’t worrit Joe,
For he allays goes with his jumper on so his jersey shouldn’ show:
An’ he wears a rope around the place where his waist belongs to be,
For buttons don’t go ‘longside o’ Joe an’ “Braces be danged,” sez he.
	“Steady an’ slow be the way to go,
	All the cleverest folk do know,
	That’s my motto,” sez Gallopin’ Joe.

Now, years agone, when Joe was young, an’ maids was aisy to get,
He used to walk with a vitty maid, but they baint married yet,
For money was scarce an’ housen scarce, but still Joe didn’ worry,
An’ tho’ the maid had saved her clothes, Joe said “An’ what’s the hurry?”
	“Steady an’ slow be the way to go,
	All the cleverest folk do know,
	That’s my motto,” sez Gallopin’ Joe.

Gallopin’ Joe don’t worry himself what people sez an’ thinks;
When plaguey varmints calls him names he awnly smiles an’ winks,
For “Steady and slow,” sez Gallopin’ Joe, “be a handy motto to keep,”
An’ “If ‘ee looks for long enuff, there baint no need to leap.”
	“Steady an’ slow be the way to go,
	All the cleverest folk do know,
	That’s my motto,” sez Gallopin’ Joe.

 ... 

  A second two hundred Cornish clayworkers enlisted in a body in London
     – Daily Paper

I reckoned the war would be over soon, when another two hundred men
Went up along to ‘list in London Town;
An’ bid “Good-bye” to the Menagew Stone, an’ Tre an Pol and Pen,
To change their milky white for khaki brown.
They left the Carclaze streams to run and whiten all the bay,
At Charlestown Port they left the boats to to lie,
An’ the gallant two hundred Cornish men just bid “Good-bye” to the clay,
An’ I reckon that some do know the reason why!

I’ve heerd the General stepped along to meet ‘em by the train,
An’ sez “I’m plaised so see you’m looking well,”
An’ wanted to have a bit of advice about the old campaign,
So marched ‘em to the White Hall for a spell.
An’ I reckoned the war would be over soon, with the mem like Cornwall sends,
An’ Cornwall’s “One an’All” do bless the day;
An’ now that all the fightin’ in a happy Peacetime ends
You’ll count there’s somethin’ good in Cornish Clay.