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Updated: May 17, 2025
His study is virtue, his word truth, his life the passage of patience, and his death the rest of his spirit. His travail is a pilgrimage, his way is plainness, his pleasure peace, and his delight is love. His care is his conscience, his wealth is his credit, his charge is his chanty, and his content is his kingdom.
"The folk songs of the Seven Seas!" How that phrase took hold of me! I went for information to an old dock watchman who had been a sailor. "Songs? Why sure!" he answered. "It must be the chanties ye mean." "Chanties?" "That's it. I've been told the word's French." "Oh! Chanter!" "No chanty. An' the man that sings the verses, he's called the chantyman.
And then a chanty would rise, the voice of the leader quavering with that wild rhythm which had come down to him, a vocal heritage, through centuries of tom-toms and generations of savages striving for emotional expression. But the words were laughable or pathetic. I was adjured to "Blow de mon down with a bottle of rum, Oh, de mon mon blow de mon down."
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