William Campbell, Belfast

Enclosed a little piece of prose from a book I have recently got published (after many years hibernating in the dark recesses of my computer).  The title “Down the Gut” a selection of anecdotes as remembered by old matelots over many years in Malta.  This little book is currently going like hotcakes on eBay:

“GOING ASHORE (MALTA)”

Bosun’s call pipes ‘Hands to tea’ on the stroke of half past three

Men start rushing all about, turning lockers inside out

Where’s that collar, dickie front? So begins the endless hunt

Lanyard’s grubby, just might do, wrinkled silk need’s ironing too

Polished shoes are far from fine, ingrained lub oil dulling shine

Number ones have seen some action, luckily there’s no inspection

Blanco’d cap completes the show, Jolly Jack from head to toe.

Duty watch, must get a sub and tap best oppo for a rub.

Up on deck on stroke of four, hail a dghaisa, head for shore.

Land just facing Tony’s Bar, nip across for just one jar

Two hours later, feeling merry get the bus or take a gharry

First stop Kingsway then the Gut, down the steps we boldly strut

Dodging invites, “come inside”, forging on not breaking stride.

Never veering off the course till was reached the Silver Horse.

Very soon all separate, each hoping to acquire a mate,

Someone warm with figure narrow, just as long as it’s not Sparrow.

Left and right the lads meander in each bar to have a gander,

New Life, Mascot, Lucky wheel, Charlie’s (with his usual spiel).

Evening’s end, all money spent the troops begin the steep ascent,

Up the seeming endless street muddled heads and leaden feet.

Steering gone each Man o’Fight staggers on, sans steaming light.

Tomorrow morn you’ll hear the vow “Never more the peg’s in now”

Promises that swiftly flee when bosuns mate pipes ‘Hands to tea’,

As reeds of Pan, the trills entrance, lead our Jack a merry dance,

Wheels of fate a‘turn once more beguile our hero to the shore.