They Made Sails

In the old raftered loft Where the winds blow Like thin querulous voices Out of long ago, And the cobwebs sway To and fro, to and fro, Like the fine top-hamper Etching out the sky Of a tall square-rigger In a time gone by . . . In the old raftered loft They made sails . . . Moonsails, skysails (To deck a new-built clipper), Stunsails, trysails (To suit a racing skipper), Mainsails, to'gans'ls, Great sails and small, In the old raftered loft They made them all . . . Yonder where the sun strikes On the rutted floor, Old Sails used to sit Forty years or more, Like an old bald Buddha, Squatting on his throne, Where the girls come with garlands And the yellow monks intone. There he'd sit and yarn Hour by hour About the Blackwall frigate Owen Glendower , Where he learned his trade A dog watch ago, Striding down the Tropic With her tacks boarded And a wake like snow . . . In the old raftered loft He made sails . . . They drooped in the Doldrums Dark with tropic dew; They stooped in the Forties When the West winds blew; They flushed like Alps at sunrise In the dawn's first glow; They took the last daylight, Tall towers of snow . . . When it was 'Watch, aloft and furl it' In the black Horn night; And 'Shake another reef out' At the first gleam of light; Give her all she'll carry Through the Trade Wind foam, By the great Lord Harry Crack it on for home . . . Outer jibs, flying jibs (Killers of men), Ringtail and Jamie Green (They will not come again). Stunsails, skysails (To dress a flying clipper), Every sort of handkercher To suit a racing skipper . . . Big sails and little sails For ships great and small, In the old raftered loft They made them all . . .