There was a Seaman who hailed from the west;
From Dartmouth perhaps, I really can't tell.
He rode a packhorse, none too well
Dressed in a knee length, rough wool gown.
His dagger hung from a cord, which ran down
And round under his arm, like a baldric.
The summer had burned him brown as a brick.
A really good fellow as well, I should say:
He'd put many a glass of Bordeaux away
While the wine merchant was sleeping below.
His conscience was broad, as consciences go.
If, when ships fought, his gained the upper hand
He sent his foes by water back to land.
For craftsmanship, in reckoning the tides
The currents and the dangers on all sides,
Knowing havens, the moon and navigation,
There was no better man in any nation.
He was wise in business, hardy and hale;
His beard had been blown by many a gale.
As to harbours he knew exactly where
They were, from Gotland to Cape Finistere
And every creek, in Brittany and Spain.
His sailing barge was called the Madelain.
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.
He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe,
In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.
A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he
Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun.
The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun,
And certeinly he was a good felawe.
Ful many a draughte of wyn had he ydrawe
Fro Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep.
Of nyce conscience took he no keep.
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond,
By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.
But of his craft, to rekene wel his tydes,
His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides,
His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage,
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;
With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.
He knew alle the havenes as they were,
From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere,
And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne.
His barge ycleped was the Maudelayne.