The Awful Wah-Hooh-Wow

She's ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a weary, lear y list,
An' the mud is creepin', creepin' to her rail;
She's sound in ev'ry timber--is the Mary of the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign that she's for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer--
The Hoodoo is upon her, an' here I give the tale.
(The story has a warnin' that's as plain as plain can be,
An''tis: Never go to triflin' with the secrets of the sea.)
Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward
Island, signed
With Foster's folks of Gloucester for a
"chancin' trip," hand-lined;
An' when we counted noses as we rounded
Giant's Grist
We found the chap among us on the Mary of the Mist.
An' we sized him for a "conjer" ere we'd fairly got to sea;
The wind was whiffin' crooked, jest as mean as mean could be;
"P. I." is colloquial term for Prince Edward
Islander.
Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin' secret at the mast,
An' at once he got suspicious an' he overhauled him fast.
The chap had made some markin's an' he'd driven in a nail--
Oh, we understood him perfect--he was raisin' up a gale.
The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage then was done--
The gale came up a-roarin' with the settin' of the sun.
Then we wallered to the west'ard an' we wallered to the east,
An' we seemed the core an' bowels of a gob of wind an' yeast.
We smashed our way to suth'ard, an' we clawed an' ratched to west,
There was scarcely time for eatin'; there was never chance for rest,
With the liners slammin' past us through the fog an' spume an' rain,
An' the Mary dodgin' passers like a puppy in a lane.
The third day found us flappin' with a mighty ragged wash,
The lee rail runnin' under an' the trawl tubs all a-swash,
An' at last the plummet told us we were backin' to'ards the shoals,
Yet we couldn't ratch an' leave 'em with our canvas rags an' holes.
T ack--tack--tack--
Still a-slippin' back;
'Twas a time for meditatin' on the prospects for our souls.
Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin', glarin' glance,
An' he says: "My friends, I'm lookin' where I look!
I hain't a saint in no way, an' I'll give a man a chance,
But I think I see a Jonah if I hain't a lot mistook.
I reckon ye discern him,
Now over goes he, durn him,
Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he's brought, by hook or crook."
(We stood there, grim an' solemn, an' we bent our gaze upon
The stranger "conjer" sailor, that P. I.--
Perkinson.)
He never flinched nor quivered, though we'd reckoned that he would,
He simply turned an' faced us, an' he says: "I meant ye good.
I asked a breeze from suth'ard, but it slipped an' got away;
Still, you needn't worry, shipmates! When I owe a debt I'll pay."
He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary carried spare,
An' fastened on a gang-hook an' baited it with care.
Then he took a magic vial an' he sprinkled on the bait
A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to calkerlate.
He hitched a dagon-sinker an' he let the line run free,
An' overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the sea,
We didn't get the language of the secret spells he said,
But we gathered he was fishin' on the deepest ocean bed.
We heard him as he muttered an' it seemed that he could tell
What kind of fish was bitin', with an eyesight straight from hell.
"Ah, brim," he sort o' chanted as he gave the line a twig--
An' must pay his lawful tribute to the awful
Wah-hooh-wow.
We saw Its neck a-curvin' an' we heard Its red tongue lick
As It drooled an' swoofed the drippin's, and then, as one might pick
A ripe an' juicy cherry, It grabbed that "conjer" man
An' sank with coils a-flashin' in the light from old Cape Ann,
An' we--we towed with dories till we got to
Gloucester shore--
An' you'll never get a Banksman on the Mary any more.
No--no--no!
Not a man will go,
For her towage fee hain't settled till the Wahhooh-wow takes four.
She's ashore in Gloucester harbor with a weary, leary list,
An' the mud is creepin', creepin' to her rail;
She's sound in ev'ry timber--is the Mary of the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign that she's for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer--
The Hoodoo is upon her, an' I've given you the tale.
(The story has a Warnin' that's as plain as plain can be,
An''tis: Never go to triflin' with the secrets of the sea.)