naow.”
It was not “Ireson’s Ride” that the woman delivered, but some sort of poem about a fishing-port called Brixham and a fleet of trawlers beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on.
“They took the grandma’s blanket, Who shivered and bade them go; They took the baby’s cradle, Who could not say them no.”
“Whew!” said Dan, peering over Long Jack’s shoulder. “That’s great! Must ha’ bin expensive, though.”
“Groundhog case,” said the Galway man. “Badly lighted port, Danny.”
“And knew not all the while If they were lighting a bonfire Or only a funeral pile.”
The wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when she told how the drenched crews were flung