Quotes about heave, page 3
Shearing at Castlereagh
The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot,
There's five-and-thirty shearers here a-shearing for the loot,
So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along --
The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong --
And make your collie dogs speak up; what would the buyers say
In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?
The man that "rung" the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here,
That stripling from the Cooma-side can teach him how to shear.
They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes,
And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose;
It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay,
They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.
The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage,
He's always in a hurry; and he's always in a rage --
"You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick,
You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.
Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today,
It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh."
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Speak O Withered Leaves, Speak.
Cover her eyes, her stony looks,
She is dead;
And ring the bell for she is dead
Where one age ends the other begins
-the long dark distracted night.
How could she die, a fairy and so young
O want what more misery can thou wring
Two crusts of bread and a form erased.
O withered leaves wert thou a rose?
Could beauty be more beautiful
I cans't say my fancy fails.
How could I describe thee
Which part were more beautiful
Speak o speak utter but few words
But no; thou woulds't not speak
And I hear no more thy sweet voice.
O breathless breast thou woulds't heave no more,
But once did heave more beautifully
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poem by Om Chawla
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The Stranded Ship: (The “Vincennes”)
’Twas the glowing log of a picnic fire where a red light should not be,
Or the curtained glow of a sick room light in a window that faced the sea.
But the Manly lights seemed the Sydney lights, and the bluffs as the “Heads” were seen;
And the Manly beach was the channel then—and the captain steered between.
The croakers said with a shoulder shrug, and a careless, know-all glance:
“You might pull out her stem, or pull out her stern—but she’ll sail no more for France!”
Her stem was dry when the tide was out, and behind her banked the sand,
Where strong gales come from the Hurricane east and the sun sets on the land.
When the tide was high and the rollers struck she shuddered as if in pain,
She had no hope for the open sea and the fair full breeze again.
She turned her side to the pounding seas and the foam glared over the rails,
It seemed her fate to be sold and stripped, and broken by winter gales.
But they sent strong gear, and they sent the gangs, and they sent her a man who knew,
And the tugs came nosing round from the Heads to see what a tug could do;
The four-ton anchors they laid to sea in the waves and the wind and rain,
And the great steel hawser they hove aboard made fast to her cable chain.
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poem by Henry Lawson
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A Descriptive Ode
Supposed to have been written under the Ruins of
Rufus's Castle, among the remains of the ancient
Church on the Isle of Portland.
CHAOTIC pile of barren stone,
That Nature's hurrying hand has thrown,
Half finish'd, from the troubled waves;
On whose rude brow the rifted tower
Has frown'd, through many a stormy hour,
On this drear site of tempest-beaten graves.
Sure Desolation loves to shroud
His giant form within the cloud
That hovers round thy rugged head;
And as through broken vaults beneath,
The future storms low-muttering breathe,
Hears the complaining voices of the dead.
Here marks the fiend with eager eyes,
Far out at sea the fogs arise
That dimly shade the beacon'd strand,
And listens the portentous roar
Of sullen waves, as on the shore,
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poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Rescue
THERE’S a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft:
‘Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call—
Run, you fool! Number Two’s gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below—any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?
‘Heave away!’ says the knocker. ‘They’ve started. God be praised, he’s no youngsters or wife!’
Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague frightened murmur of birds,
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words.
From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace,
Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face.
‘Who’s below?’ ‘Where’s the fall?’ Didn’t I tell you?—Didn’t I say that them sets wasn’t sound?’
‘Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker; now he’s seen his last shift underground.’
‘And his mate? Where is Sandy M‘Fadyn?’ ’Sandy’s snoring at home on his bunk.’
‘Not at work! Name o’ God! a foreboding?’ ‘A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!’
Take it steady there, lads!’ the boss orders. He is white to the roots of his hair.
We may get him alive before daybreak if he’s close to the face and has air.’
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Bonnie Lass o' Ruily
'Twas in the village of Ruily there lived a bonnie lass
With red, pouting lips which few lasses could surpass,
And her eyes were as azure the blue sky,
Which caused Donald McNeill to heave many a love sigh
Beyond the township of Ruily she never had been,
This pretty maid with tiny feet and aged eighteen;
And when Donald would ask her to be his wife,
"No," she would say, "I'm not going to stay here all my life."
"I'm sick of this life," she said to Donald one day,
"By making the parridge and carrying peats from the bog far away."
"Then marry me, Belle, and peats you shall never carry again,
And we might take a trip to Glasgow and there remain."
Then she answered him crossly, "I wish you wouldn't bother me,
For I'm tired of this kind of talk, as you may see."
So at last there came a steamer to Ruily one day,
So big that if almost seemed to fill the bay.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Book of Los
CHAP I
1: Eno aged Mother,
Who the chariot of Leutha guides,
Since the day of thunders in old time
2: Sitting beneath the eternal Oak
Trembled and shook the stedfast Earth
And thus her speech broke forth.
3: O Times remote!
When Love & joy were adoration:
And none impure were deem’d.
Not Eyeless Covet
Nor Thin-lip’d Envy
Nor Bristled Wrath
Nor Curled Wantonness
4: But Covet was poured full:
Envy fed with fat of lambs:
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poem by William Blake (1795)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Octopus
Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro
You have no word
Trip, trip to a dream dragon
Hide your wings in a ghost tower
Sails cackling at every plate we break
Cracked by scattered needles
The little minute gong
Coughs and clears his throat
Madam you see before you stand
Hey ho, never be still
The old original favorite grand
Grasshoppers green herbarian band
And the tune they play is in us confide
So trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro
You have no word
Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Isnt it good to be lost in the wood
Isnt it bad so quiet there, in the wood
Meant even less to me than I thought
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song performed by Pink Floyd
Added by Lucian Velea
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Clowns & Jugglers
Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro
You have no word
Trip, trip to a dream dragon
Hide your wings in a ghost tower
Sails cackling at every plate we break
Was cracked by scattered needles
The little minute gong
Coughs and clears his throat
Madam you see before you stand
Hey ho, never be still
The old original favorite grand
Grasshoppers green herbarian band
And the tune they play is in us confide
So trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro
You have no word
Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Isnt it good to be lost in the wood
Isnt it bad so quiet there, in the wood
Meant even less to me than I thought
[...] Read more
song performed by Pink Floyd
Added by Lucian Velea
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Train Kept A Rollin'
Well, on a train, I met a dame,
She rather handsome, but (???) the same
She was pretty, from New York City
I'm walkin' down that old fair lane,
I'm in heat, I'm in love,
But I just couldn't tell her so
I said, train kept a-rollin' all night long
Train kept a-rollin' all night long
Train kept a-rollin' all night long
Train kept a-rollin' all night long
With a "heave!", and a "ho!"
But I just couldn't tell her so, no, no, no
Well, get along, sweet little woman get along
On your way, get along, sweet little woman get along
On your way,
I'm in heat, I'm in love,
But I just couldn't tell her so, no, no, no
Well, on a train, I met a dame,
She rather handsome, but (???) the same
She was pretty, from New York City
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song performed by Guns N' Roses
Added by Lucian Velea
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