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Updated: April 30, 2025
Split jibs! tear yourselves! I save my sweat. OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I'll dance over your grave, I will that's the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews!
Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through it! Split jibs! tear yourselves! That's a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I'll dance over your grave, I will that's the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners.
He walked away in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at street corners. Winter was come!
He walked away in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at street corners. Winter was come!
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