THE CLEANER

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume IV, 1 April 1901, Page 543

THE CLEANER

On staiTy nights, on starless nights, But in the moonlight mostly, The seamen see her pale, wan lights Above a grey hull ghostly. Her forefoot lifts a cold, white wave That ripples clear and gleaming, But all is silent as the grave, And though her wake lies streaming, No engine's throbbing fills the air With sounds like giants panting, She passes grimmer than Despair, Her white-faced deck-hands chanting —

The seas are wide, And even/ tide Will set the dead men spinning Amomj the brown sea-weeds and flowers ; And even/ one we find is ours, And even/ one worth winning.

Ere dawn-dew to the hill grass clings, The shepherds oft have seen her Searching the shallow bays for things Of which she is a gleaner. Her captain turns her on her heel — Hard down with steer-chains grinding, Lest there be dead men where no keel Can pass in channel winding. And when the fishers roll from sea, Brown-sailed, and salt spume flying,

They meet the Ghost-ship steaming free, And hear her pale crow crying —

Where seas are deep The sailors sleep With white sea-flowers around them : And 'toe must search for -those that lie Where screws may wake them drumviinij hi/, Or plunging keels may ground them.

When storms are high, and foe's'les dip, With scuppers full and gushing, The steersman sees the phantom ship Among the breakers rushing, The sea-spray dims her cabin lights, \ Her side-lights barely glimmer, And as the rudder, groaning, fights He prays that any swimmer Upon that harsh, relentless sea, May know what ship comes swinging, And make no call for help, lest he Be found by sailors singing —

Oh ! Storms are grand ! But o'er the sand The pale, dead men are sailituj ; So must we search each reef and bank, Among the sea-weed cold and dank, For we can hear them hailing.

Then eastward, toward the morning light, She steams, when night is waning, With Plimsoll swinging out of sight, At speed that knows no reining ; Eager to reach the ocean deep, So that the dead she carries May lie 'neath white sea-flower, and sleep Where never swift keel tarries; So as the fingers of the sun Are stretched o'er seas a-rolling, She bids the dead men, one by one, " Good-bye ! " with bells a-tolling — Deep, deep they sleep, And o'er them sweep The steamers, vainly striving To ivake them with their tearing screws. Their roaring rods, and sivearing crews, And blazing bows a-driving.

She comes when night is on the tide, And snorting blackfish wallows, To search each narrow bay, and wide, A gleaner of the shallows. On cloudy nights, on cloudless nights, But in the moonlight mostly, The lighthouse keepers see her lights Slip by them, weird and ghostly ; And top-s'l sohooners, on a wind, Expecting choice of sailing, Hang shivering, with their wheels hardpinned, To let the ghost pass wailing — The seas are wide, And every tide Will set the dead men rolling ; And every one we find is ours, To lay asleep 'neath white sea-flowers, At sea, with bells a-tolling.