Bang! Bang! Tap! Tap-a-tap! Rap! All through the lead and silver Winter days, All through the copper of Autumn hazes. Tap to the red rising sun, Tap to the purple setting sun. Four years pass before the job is done. Two thousand oak trees grown and felled, Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald, Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks With huge boles Round which the tape rolls Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks. Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir; Planking from Dantzig. My! What timber goes into a ship! Tap! Tap! Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways, Tapping, tapping. You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze. Through the fog down the reaches of the river, The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever. The church-bells chime Hours and hours, Dropping days in showers. Bang! Rap! Tap! Go the hammers all the time. They have planked up her timbers And the nails are driven to the head; They have decked her over, And again, and again. The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain. Black and blue breeches, Pigtails bound and shining: Like ants crawling about, The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out. Joiners, calkers, And they are all terrible talkers. Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales Of whales, and spice islands, And pirates off the Barbary coast. He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails. Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice, He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings: "The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!" Every Sunday People come in crowds (After church-time, of course) In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, And some have brought cold chicken and flagons Of wine, And beer in stoppered jugs. "Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham."