Mother Carey

A poem by John Masefield,  the Poet Laureate (1930 to1967) called Mother Carey is contained in his book called Salt Water Ballads (1902). Mother Carey is a supernatural figure personifying the cruel and threatening sea in the imagination of 18th and 19th century English-speaking sailors.

A copy of the book was recently found by Barbara  in a local bookshop. She brought a copy along to a recent session so we could view the Ballad/Poem.

Emily is hoping to read it through at tomorrow's Shanty session. Just in case the opportunity does not arise please find below a copy of the poem.


Mother Carey

Mother Carey? She's the mother o' the witches
'N' all them sort o'rips,
She's a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is,
She's a sight too fond of ships
She lives upon a iceberg to the norred,
'N' her man he's Davy Jones.
'N' she combs the weeds upon her forred
With pore drowned sailors' bones.


She's the mother o' the wrecks, 'n' the mother,
Of all big winds as blows,
She's up to some deviltry or other
When it storms, or sleets, or snows.
The noise of the wind's her screamin',
"I'm arter a plump, young, fine,
Brass-buttoned, beefy-ribbed young seam'n,
So as me 'n' my mate kin dine."


She's a hungry old rip 'n' in a cruel,
For sailor-men like we,
She's give a many mariners the gruel
' N' a long sleep under sea.
She's the blood o' many a crew upon her
'N' the bones of many a wreck,
'N' she's barnacles a-growin' on her
'N' shark's teeth round her neck.


I ain't never had no schoolin'
Nor read no books like you,
But I knows 't ain't healthy to be foolin'
With that there gristly two,
You're young, you thinks, 'n' you're lairy,
But if you're to make old bones,
Steer clear, I says, o' Mother Carey,
'N' that there Davy Jones.