Dusty the miller sits on the sill
And idly waits for a turn of the mill,
but the wind is fickle and will not blow
so the sails won’t turn and the mill won’t go,
and Dusty the miller his wage can’t earn
for his blooming wife and his little bairn.
So he sends for Toby from down the lane
who sailed the seas of the Spanish Main,
and fought aboard The Prince of Wales
to whistle a wind up to drive the sails.
So Toby raised the pipe to his lips
and began to blow like they do on ships
and the notes went soaring into the sky,
to the home of the north wind bye and bye.
On hearing them the north wind draws
a mighty breath, and then he roars
and the sails of the mill begin to fill
and the last I heard they were turning still…

The plough boy wends his merry way
and whistles up the sun today.
Yesterday he made it  rain,
and ploughing was postponed again!
Tomorrow if his notes are low
Perhaps we will be in for snow.
But if his tunes are all displeasing
Expect a bitter morn-with freezing!

Soft, the swirling mist lies on the hills
and melting snow the swollen brook o’erfills,
while robin with the hawthorn  vainly vies
to show his crimson plumes to leaden skies.
In the hedgerow field mice sleeping warm
dream of summer fruits and ears of corn,
while in the valley on the frozen pond  
with heads hung low the hungry heron’s stand.
And when the snowfall quickens in the night,
the earth will lie asleep all clothed in white.
As in that wintry land long  long ago
when angels round a stable whispered low
where kings and shepherds knelt before a child,
and the earth shone pure and white.

Oh how my spirit longs to go to the oft remembered hills
to listen to the tinkling brook a dancing down the rills,
where Curlews soar majestically on high,
and soft green folds hold up a golden sky.
There in dusty lanes and scent filled air
the weary spirit flies oblivious to care,
where nature spreads her bounty over all,
and summer rains like blessings gently fall.
Come with me and we will fly
to the land of golden sky
and  tread the lanes to climb the stile
and there know sweet contentment
for awhile.

See the boy as he wanders hands in pockets around the harbour,
Observe how he watches the vessels moored against the harbour wall,
Admiring this one, frowning at another.
Watch his face as he studies each in turn,
Frowning at neglect or smiling at a well found vessel,
Admiring the clean lines and seaworthiness of another.
This one is too fine in the bow, and will bury her nose in heavy weather,
The next is too bluff bowed and a good wave will stop her dead in the water.
That other, he notes, has good solid rails to hold onto in a blow,
The next has only guard wires, harsh on the hands and set too low to be of any real use!
And this one, spotlessly clean and as smart as paint,
But it never goes to sea poor thing! It is cleaned and polished daily and the engine run, but for what?
But this old fishing boat now, see how well it is cared for! Note the grease oozing from the bearings of her tackle, see how staunch and tight her boards are! And how well painted, take note how well organized she is, a place for everything, and everything in it’s place.
This is a proper sea boat, he thinks, and calls down a greeting to the skipper.
“Hi Dad, ready for gannin oot?” “Hi son. Aye ready!”

No more shall we tread the dusty lanes of youth
or lie amidst the meadows dancing flowers,
marvelling at nature’s simple truths,
recumbent ‘neath the cherry’s florid bowers.
To drink the crystal waters of the stream
or watch the red throats in their watery home
and  gaze at Dragon flies adream
or dig for pig nuts in the sandy loam.
Deep in the bracken oft we lay
to watch the towering citadels float by,
then up again  and off once more we’d go
beneath that vast dominion of the sky.
Though sixty years and more have quickly flown
yet still the memories come flooding back,
bright memories that live in me alone
of friends like Sara, Joe and Toothless Jack.
What fun we’d have in far off distant days
at harvest when the corn was cut and bound,
we’d help the farmer build it into stooks,
like little houses on the stubbly ground.
In winter when the north wind brought us snow
our sledges from the coal house we’d all bring,
and joyfully, with faces all aglow
heedless of the bitter wind we’d sing!
A candle in a jam jar for a light
hung from a stick and held on high,
would cast long shadows in the wintry night
that followed us wherever we passed by.
Gleefully we’d breach the wind blown drifts
and make our tunnels in the spotless snow,
hoping that the blizzard never lifts,
as through the fields and byways we would go.
But now all things are changed for good or ill,
The wind comes from the south and brings us rain
I think this nothing but a bitter pill,
and would make the howling North Wind King again!

Those were the high days, the jolly days of yore,
the dim and distant past that will come again no more.
With our sweethearts and companions we would while away the hours,
laughing, sleeping, teasing ‘neath the woodlands florid bowers.
Sometimes we’d take to singing or climb the highest trees,
but often lying quiet we would simply take our ease.
Perhaps we’d roam through cornfields or paddle in the brooks,
laughing and romancing ,exchanging tender looks.
We’d often stay out very late and wear away the night
with talk of all our hopes and dreams until the dawn’s first light,
then off to try and catch some sleep ‘fore church on Sunday morn,
to the little village church which now stands so forlorn.
The bells would ring  to summon us ‘oer the county wide
oh come to church good people come, there’s room enough inside!
We’d fill up all the choir stalls, our voices strong and clear,
Sunday after Sunday for many a happy year.
It seemed that things would never change,
(they’d stay just as before), but then we heard the bugle call
And went  to join the war.
Leaving sweethearts far behind and families and homes,
we went across to France to die in friendless foreign zones.
The old church bells are silent now the steeple fallen down,
no more their cheerful ringing will peal the county round.
Those trusty souls I knew so well, are silent now just like the bell,
their broken bodies buried deep, far away in France’s keep.
In ranks they take eternal rest, of English youth, the very best!
Some comrades lie ‘neath poppy’s tall, while I alone am left of all
Those smiling lads from dale and hill, the farm, the village shop and mill,
I missed them then, I miss them still…

On a south sea Isle by a sandy shore
She bathes in the surf for evermore
And sings.

She sings of enchanted blue lagoons
Of cocoanut groves under the moon
And things,

Of things a sailor most desires
Like a pretty girl and a glowing fire
And love.

And later when she tires of you
She’ll send you off o’er the blue
To roam.

But you’ll never escape the siren call
Of the dusky maid that so enthralled
Your senses.

So sailors all beware the guile
Of the dusky maid with the winsome smile
Who bathes in the surf by a sandy shore
Whose sole intent it is to lure the sailor.

For if you fall beneath her spell
She’ll break your heart and who can tell
Of the consequences.

Do you heed the call of the sea my son, do you hear it’s voice?
No sir, only a murmuring whence the silver fish rejoice.
Do you mark the sound of the sea as the tide o’er flows the strand?
A little I do I think sir, for it speaks of a foreign land.
Does the sound of thunder affright you, or the flash so vivid and bright?
No sir it does not affright me, it fills me with wondrous delight.
What think you the life of a sailor? could you leave those you love on the strand and stride off over the shingle to face dangers in far away lands?
Plainly that would be hard sir, and my heart would be broken in two,
but I think I should just have to bear it, for that is what sailors must do!

He did not shrink from duties call
for King and country gave his all,
when in the battle he did fall
and was buried in the deep.
He’s been there now for many a year
he cannot see, he does not hear,
safe in the ocean’s keep.
Even the gulls cry overhead
does not disturb his watery bed
he is so very very dead,
down in his watery sleep.
He has no child to count the cost,
no tombstone with a carven cross.
Only his widow feels the loss
of her sailor boy in blue.
A flowery wreath on a windswept sea
on his anniversary,
he’s nought but a distant memory
to those who held him dear.

Oh fender on the ocean brine
could it be that you are mine,
why did you slip and run from me?
had you longings to be free?
Return at once and I will vow
to place you on the very bow,
where you will be before all others
of your smaller rubbery brothers.
Return to me and cease your lark
or you may end up in a shark.!

I’ll tell of a dream wherein I saw
A mermaid on a rocky shore,
who sang to me with words so sweet,
she swept me from my faltering feet
and beckoned me with glistening arm
to join her in the sea so warm,
to frolic in the tumbling surf
in wholesome and good natured mirth,
until at last she led me deep
unto the land where fishes sleep,
where Neptune on a throne of power
adorned withal in green sea flowers
and hung about with pearls and gold,
(of such are countless stories told),
he bade me sit, and served me Mullet,
which flapped and wriggled in my gullet
and made me feel a little queasy,
for eating live fish isn’t easy,
then Neptune, mermaid, fish and all
departed me amidst a squall,
and I awoke midst ocean billows
to find myself overwhelmed by pillows.

Lonely the lot of the sailor, on the desolate watery ways,
for danger follows his footsteps e’en on the calmest of days.
But when the sea sparkles in sunlight, or the moon on the water doth dance,
why then the sea touches his spirit and softly his soul doth entrance,
for the call of the sea is persistent and the pull of it lasts a life long,
he’ll make little of nautical dangers just as long as he hears the sea’s song.

Deep down, deep deep down
in the darkness of the sea
lie the captains blackened bones,
for ‘tis all that’s left of he.
The fish have nibbled his flesh away
and the ***** have scraped him clean,
and now he rests in the Davy deep,
in waters so serene,
hardly a current disturbs the sand
no noise affects his sleep,
only the singing of the whales,
down there in the dark dark deep.
The singing of the whales my dears
and the sighing of the sea
will serenade his lonely bones
for all eternity.
While ashore his widow waits
and still her love holds true,
for her pride and joy was a sailor boy
so smart in his navy blue.
And still she waits, and still she weeps,
for things that might have been,
and all alone her vigil keeps
forgotten and unseen.
And still she waits and still she hopes
though the pain is hard to bear,
she will wait for all eternity
until he comes back for her.