Bill
John Masefield
1878 to 1967
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He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared the cold skies,
With never a friend to mourn him nor a hand to close his eyes:
‘Bill, he’s dead,’ was all they said; ‘he’s dead, ’n’ he lies.’
The mate came forrard at seven and spat across the rail:
‘Just lash him up wi’ some holystone in a clout o’ rotten sail,
’N’, ye, get a gait on ye, ye’re slower’n a snail!’
When the rising moon was a copper and the sea was a strip of steel,
We him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath keel.
‘It’s rough about Bill,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘we’ll have to stand his wheel.’