# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Tim the Tacket

Tim the Tacket.
A Lyrical Ballad, Supposed to Be Written By W. W.
A bark is lying on the sands, No rippling wave is sparkling near her; She seems unmanned of all her hands— There's not a soul on board to steer her!
'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing Upon a lonely beach thus lying, While mystic winds for ever sing Among its shrouds like spirits sighing.
Oh! can it be a spectre-ship, Forwearied of the storm and ocean, That here hath ended its last trip, And sought repose from ceaseless motion?
I deem amiss: for vonder, see, A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket— A little man with face of glee— His neighbours call him Tim the Tacket.
I know him well; the master he Of a small bark—an Irish coaster; His heart is like the ocean, free, And like the breeze his tongue's a boaster.
He is a father, too, I'm told, Of children ten, and some say twenty; But it's no matter, he's grown old, And, ten or more, he has got plenty!
List! now he sings a burly stave Of waves and winds, and shipwrecks many, Of flying fish and dolphins brave, Of mermaids lovely but uncanny.
Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak Of slim maids in the green waves dancing, Or singing in some lonesome creek, While kembing locks like sunbeams glancing.
Oh, he hath tales of wondrous things Spied in the vast and gousty ocean; Of monstrous fish whose giant springs Give to the seas their rocking motion;
And serpents huge, whose rings embrace Some round leagues of the great Pacific; And men of central Ind, sans face, But not on that head less terrific!
Lo! he hath lit a brown cigar, A special smooth-skinned real Havannah, And swirling smoke he puffs afar— 'Tis sweet to him as dessert manna!
Away, away the reek doth go, In wiry thread or heavy volume; Now black, now blue, gold, grey, or snow In colour and in height a column!
His little eyes, deep-set and hedged All round and round with bristles hoary, Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged— Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory!
Well, I would rather be that wight, Contented, puffing, midst his tackling, Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight, In masquerade or senate cackling.
He suns his limbs upon the deck, He hears the music of the ocean; He lives not on another's beck, He pines not after court promotion.
He is unto himself—he is A little world within another; And furthermore he knoweth this, That all mankind to him is brother.
He sings his songs and smokes his weed, He spins his yarn of monstrous fables, He cracks his biscuit, and at need Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables.
Although the sea be sometimes rough, His bark is stout, its rudder steady, At other whiles 'tis calm enough, And buxom as a gentle lady.
In sooth, too, 'tis a pleasant thing, To sail and feel the sea-breeze blowing About one's cheek—oh! such doth bring Full many a free-born thought and glowing.
For who upon the deep, deep sea, Ere dwelt and saw its great breast heaving, But by a kindred sympathy Felt his own heart its trammels leaving?
The wide and wild, the strange and grand, Commingle with his inmost spirit; He feels a riddance from the land— A boundlessness he may inherit.
Good night, thou happy ancient man! Farewell, thou mariner so jolly! I pledge thee in this social can, Thou antipode of melancholy!