SKIPPER IRESON’S RIDE
by
John Greenleaf Whittier

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme –
On Apuleius’s Golden Ass,
Or one eyed Calendar’s horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam’s prophet on Al-Borak –
The strangest ride that ever was sped,
Was Ireson’s, out of Marblehead!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
“Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
“Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt,
“By the women o’ Morble’ead!”

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild eyed, free limbed, such as chase,
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish horn’s twang,
Over and over the Maenads sang:
“Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
“Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt,
“By the women o’ Morble’ead!”

Small pity for him – he sailed away,
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay –
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town’s-people on her deck!
“Lay by! Lay by!” they called to him.
Back he answered, “Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!”
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur,
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead,
Over the moaning and rainy sea –
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say,
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn’s bray.
Sea worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
“Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
“Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt,
“By the women o’ Morble’ead!”

Sweetly along the Salem Road,
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
Little the wicked skipper knew,
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol glum and grim.
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear,
Of voices shouting, far and near:
“Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
“Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt,
“By the women o’ Morble’ead!”

“Hear me, neighbours!,” at last he cried –
“What to me is this noisy ride?
“What is the shame that clothes the skin,
To the nameless horror that lives within?
“Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
“And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
“Hate me and curse me – I only dread,
“The hand of God and the face of the dead!”
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea,
Said, “God has touched him! Why should we!”
Said an old wife, mourning her only son,
“Cut the rogue’s tether and let him run!”
So with soft relentings and crude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.