Poetry - Clarence Goodland



Days of the Sail and Oar
The Fisher's Boat, it rocks and rolls On the ocean's foaming way, As the gusty wind skims o'er the sea Like drift on a wintry day: The main sail fills in the rustling breeze, The blocks creak to the strain, The staysail reels, and sheets of spray Come o'er the prow like rain. The helmsman scans with watchful eye Where the gunwale skims the brine: And the sheets are braced in the rizins oft, Where hangs the hook and line. The oilskin'd mate in his sow west hat Stands watch on the larboard side And the skipper's boy in the dellroom for'd Takes care that the jib sheets tied. The masts lean out at an angle steep The washboard Bully bears down lower, Tacks back and forth in the south-westwind As she sails toward the shore. The skipper sits on the cuddy aft. His hand and eye on the long tow-line, With the tiller stuck in the rudder's eye, And where the rodney tows behind. The days of the Sail, and the days of the oar With the flying scud and spray, Are a thing of the past in the fisher's mind, When fishing out in the bay. 'Tis a memory now, the sailing boat, That we shall see no more, And we heave a sigh when we think of the past, The days of the Sail and oar.


Clarence Goodland (1910-1980) Maberly/Elliston Resident


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