When I was a lad at the whorehouse in Kingston,
or should I say one of the many,
When the ladies were bored and the sailors were spent
they used to tell tales for a penny.
So gathered around the table at dusk –
rum, perfume and pirate-sweat mulled in a musk,
Borne of an old whore no more than a husk,
came the name of Bartholomew Roberts.
Well he once was a sailor as common as any,
whose blood e’er ran red in the scuppers,
Who soak in the sweat as they toil for the captain,
from rum bottles swilling their suppers,
But when old Captain Davis was shot in the back,
the crew bayed and howled like leaderless pack,
Throwing dead Davis o’er the side in a sack,
they made Captain of young pirate Roberts.
And he sought and he sank every ship in his path,
as if to reach Hell in a hurry.
His name grew so great that brave men surrendered
lest Roberts unleash his fury,
So horrid the crew once swore to their shame
that a frigate caught fire when he shouted his name,
And as he laughed and danced in the flames,
ships blockaded the dread pirate Roberts.
Now what drove the men who came hunting his hide,
did they come avenging their loved ones?
Did they sail as loyal government agents,
protecting the most valuable trade runs?
No, they cared not for commerce, clan or the Crown,
not the cheap copper coin of a hero’s renown,
But the glad weight of gold, melted pure by the pound,
brought the hunters of dread pirate Roberts.
Well his eyes darted ‘round like a wild boar at bay;
he knew he’d been trapped at last,
And as he gave orders to sail through the gauntlet
he dreamed of his crimes of the past.
He sat down in his chair and the helmsman did shout:
“My Captain, my Captain, ‘tis no time for doubt!”
But o’er his hands the wild blood did spout,
grapeshot killed the dread pirate Roberts.
Well the old crone laughed as if she had thought
the death of the pirate was funny,
I gave her the last copper coin that I had,
she grinned as she grasped at the money.
She said, “Sea ghosts keen in the crash and the boom,
but the cannon took poor Roberts’ throat in his doom,
So silent as snow on the roof of a tomb
is the ghost of Bartholomew Roberts.”
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maritime music, sea shanties, drinking and bawdy songs to audiences before pirates were all the rage, they've been a main stage act at venues across America and Europe....more
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