Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BALLAD OF CAPTAIN KIDD, by JAMES H. TUCKLEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BALLAD OF CAPTAIN KIDD, by                    
First Line: Come, launch my longboat, comrades three
Last Line: Or one of his comrades three.
Subject(s): Kidd, William (captain) (1645-1701)


"Come, launch my longboat, comrades three,
And lower my chest of gold;
If I must die by the king's decree,
I'll die like a pirate bold.

"And fend my treasure forward and back
With boxes darkly spread,
For a pall of black, as if one -- alack! --
Lay there in a coffin, dead.

"We'll run Hell-gate, be the devil in wait,
And we'll hazard the Kill van Kull.
In the muck and the reeds of the Newark-town meads
I'll bury my chest, crammed full.

"And who shall have guessed that I buried my chest
So far from the open sea?
Who lifts that lid will be Captain Kidd,
Or one of his comrades three."

They lowered away at the break of day
And they rowed till the day was spent.
It was Jemmie the Lascar, and Pede Madagascar,
And Moe, and the Captain, that went.

And they took four spades, and they took four blades,
And they took four pistols trim,
And they took four flasks of rum in a case,
And they laughed in the face of the whole human race,
As they ran their gauntlet grim.

The craft shone white to the left and the right
In each little bight on the way,
And they stared like eyes at the Captain's prize,
In its black disguise as it lay;
But no one knew either cargo or crew,
So they came safe through to the bay.

The sun went down o'er Elizabeth-town,
And a hill to the starboard stood,
Where the moon uprolled with its misty gold
Over fold on fold of wood,
And a towering bark sprang forth from the dark
And boded their hearts no good.

They started, abashed, as a lantern flashed,
And they paused in the lantern's glare,
While a uniformed wight hove into their sight
And cast them a cold bad stare.

"O ye bear four spades, and ye bear four blades,
And ye bear four pistols trim,
And heaven knows what in the case ye've got,
But ye have the hue of a pirate crew,
And a pirate aspect grim."

They groaned four groans, and they moaned four moans
And each man shed a tear.
"We're bringing our mate to the burying ground
In Newark-town hard by here."
And each took a swig as he eyed that brig,
And the king's man big and near.

"They are saints, I'm told, with harps of gold
That walk in Wakeman's town,
And they've no grave for a murdered knave
Nor room for a rascal brown.

"Ye go to the kirk with pistol and dirk,
And ye mourn full knavishly,
But who ever knew of a pirate crew
So far from the open sea?"

He suffered them in with a shrug and grin,
As the rarest freak of time;
But they gave up hope as they entered there,
For they choked in the dead marsh-odored air,
And they hated an inland clime.

The misty light on Newark's bight
To them was a hellish noon,
And they who could beard strong men were afeared
Of the mild mysterious moon,
And the starlight thin, and the lamps, miles in,
And the crazy far-off croon.

Night creatures all kept carnival
Upon the gloomy flats,
Both creeping things and flying wings,
Mosquitoes, bugs, and bats;

And stories passed on lips aghast,
Half legend and half rum,
Of an Indian chieftain, Oraton,
A wise old Delaware, dead and gone,
Who looks for kingdom come

In paint and feathers, primed for war,
Stirring once more on the night-veiled shore
His tribal ashes cold;
Lying in wait for Dutchmen late,
As in the wars of old.

They touched on a reach that they took for a beach
And forth leapt each, waist-deep,
But a drowned ravine yet lay between
With a slope unseen and steep.

They laid firm hold of the chest of gold,
Each lifted a corner up,
And forward plunged and sideward lunged
On the brink of the watery slope.

One loosed his grasp with a painful gasp,
Sharp-stung by an insect swarm,
And broke their footsteps' well-poised aim.
Ah! his was the blame, and his was the shame,
For he loosed his steadying arm.

They lost all hold of the chest of gold
And swore as it rolled away,
And they searched and sought, and they fumed and fought,
But it lies there to this day.

For as they groped where the sand-bar sloped
And wildly hoped at last,
A whoop rang clear from the meadows near
And hurtled away far over the bay,
Like Gabriel's trumpet-blast!

So they took four spades, and they took four blades,
And they took four pistols trim,
And they rowed pell-mell, to escape that yell,
In the moonlight soft and dim.

'Twere hard to say they were frightened away
By the king's man following far,
And one were loath to record an oath
To the Indian's whoop of war.

But if eyes have faith, they can see that wraith --
'Mid the rats and the cans and the reeds --
And the stealthy step that scorns the ground,
And the glance that darts like a serpent's round,
In the muck and the ruck of the meads.

When daylight dies, the faint fireflies
Transpierce the reedy shadows.
Mosquitoes on the night-wing rise
And circle the spot where the lost gold lies
Among the misty meadows.

The shining coins of a score of lands,
Warmed by thousands of throbbing hands,
Storied with hopes and fears,
Are one with the drowned and buried sands
And the forgotten years.

And Moe is cold, and the captain bold
Was hanged by the king's decree,
And Jemmie the Lascar and Pede Madagascar
Were lost in the lone South Sea.

Neither delve nor dredge, where the wind-blown sedge
At the water's edge waves free.
Who lifts that lid will be Captain Kidd,
Or one of his comrades three.





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