Talk like a pirate…

Arr, the crew o’ Baroque ‘as been sore belayed for many weeks – but today be e’en aye at turn o’ the sun what comes but once in a twelvemonth. Aye, it is International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

To wit, since this be a log o’ the poesy, what better to mark w’ due solemnity the solemn tale of a buccaneer belayed, equal-like, in ‘is mind… Arr, the Cap’n will swear upon it, the doldrums will smite many’s a fine upstanding swain, an’ for all the pow’r he has over it ‘he might as well be dragged down to Davy Jones’ locker an’ all.

Arr, avast! Here be the Love Ditty of an ‘Eartsick Pirate, translated from the devilish King’s tongue by the Mistress o’ Baroque some yearn ago. First posted withal to a port named after the noble Horizon, where its colours still bravely flutter…

It’s time we be goin’, me hearty, avast!
When the night’s nailed up its colours to its mast
Like some swab loaded to the gun’les ’n’ lashed to the plank;
Arr, make our way by th’ ghosty ports o’ call,
The bloody Triangle,
Quietin’ the parrots, kippin’ in dens of iniquity,
Where the scraps o’ the earth mixes with the scrapin’s o’ the sea:
Down alleys where ye argues if ye durst:
The forebodin’ of th’ accursed:
An’ all to get ye to the point of a certain little matter …
Nay, never ask what it may be,
There be a gentleman I’d like ye to see.

In yon chamber the ladies do perambulate
a-jabbering o’ some oilpaint addlepate.

Arrr, th’mist what do rub itself upon yon portholes,
Th’ ghoulish-coloured mist that be rubbin’ its muzzle on yon portholes
Licked its chops round the corners o’ the evenin’ as if it was ship’s biscuit,
Wafted over yon pools o’ seeping bilgewater,
Lettin’ the smokestacks mark it wi’ their black spots o’ smuts;
Crept up past the crow’s nest for to ambush wi’ a sudden leap,
And, seein’ no land nor nary a star, nay, only the soft poetic lappin’ o’ the waves,
Curled itself round about and aye fell into a slumber like that o’ the deep.

And lo! the clock will tick but slow
For the sallow smoke upon yon promenade,
Aye swabbin’ the portholes as it goes among ’em;
Ye’ll hear the ticks but few, the tocks but far between,
As ye be composin’ yersel’ t’engage with yon privateers;
There’ll be time to do yer scurvy worst, and aye to mend yer sails,
And time itself’ll becalm all the works and days of hands
That do raise up an’ be a-placin’ o’ the black spot upon ye, the curs;
Becalmed, we’ll be, both you an’ me,
Time’ll be fer makin’ and fer breakin’ consort,
Time’ll be fer full tack an’ fer comin’ round again,
Afor the chowder an’ rumfustian.

In yon chamber the ladies do perambulate
a-jabbering o’ some oilpaint addlepate.

And I swear to ye, we’ll be becalmed enough
To wonder, “Does I dare?” and, “Does I dare?” like some custardy lout,
To go below decks as yon galleon comes about,
As me scarf flies off in th’wind an’ shows me pewter-pate —
(The swabs a-deck’ll say, “thar, I’ll polish my trusty blade afor th’ mornin’”)
my long clothes, the unaccustomed way they do rise up about my chin,
the kerchief presentable, and all done up tight wi’ a rusty pin,
(the swabs’ll say, “he’s but a lily-livered flabber, by the Dutchman!”)
Arrr, does I dare
Create upheavals, aye, to sway the tides?
Yon tides roll slow
Over the dead reckonin’, the tack, the yellow jack, they roll both in an’ out.

For I be accustomed to ’em all, to be sure, already
Accustomed to yon sunsets, daybreaks, the long days over the mendin’,
For a pirate’s days are numbered like drops o’ rum in a nipperkin;
I’ve aheared ’em, yon voices whisp’rin in the galley,
While overhead some poor soul dances with Jack Ketch.
So whatwise is I but a swabbin’ wretch?

Cast yourn eyes over the remainder, arrr.