Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child--
Chrisom child."
"Who's Mike?" my brother growled
A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman--
"Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more;
But he can sing, when he takes on to sing,
So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire
But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold,
I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate,
As we were shoving off the mackerel boats,
Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song
They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'"
"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit,
Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war--
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells,
And 'murderous messages,' delivered by
Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men."
"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!"
My brother. And I--"The gift belongs to few
Of sending farther than the words can reach
Their spirit and expression;" still--"Have done!"
He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out
More loudly than the meaning warranted,
To air my lungs--I thought not on the words."
Then said the fisherman, who missed the point,
"So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir,
Please God you live till Sunday."
"Even so:
And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say,
You are all church-goers."
"Surely, Sir," quoth he,
Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head
And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said,
As one that utters with a quiet mind
Unchallenged truth--"'Tis lucky for the boats.
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