The rest was a detailed account of the night spent with the maiden. Roar on roar rose the boisterous chorus: "Blow the man down, bullies, blow him right down!" The big patched, dirty sails went jerking and flapping up toward the stars, which from here were so faint they could barely be seen. And the ship moved out on the harbor. "There go the folk songs of the seas," I thought disgustedly, looking out on the water now showing itself grease-mottled in the first raw light of day. I tried other songs with my artist's ears and found them all much like the first, the music like the very stars, the words like the grease and scum on the water. I was about giving up my search when I met my old friend, the watchman. "Well, did ye find the chanties?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "They can't be printed." His old eyes twinkled merrily: "Of course they can't. An' _most_ songs an' stories can't. But I'll give ye a nice little song ye can print. It's the oldest chanty of 'em all. I'll try to remember an' write it down." Here is the song he gave me: ROLLING HOME To Australia's fair-haired maidens We will bid our last good-bye. We are going home to England, We may never more see you. Rolling home, rolling home, Rolling home across the sea, Rolling home to merry England, Rolling home dear land to thee. We will leave you our best wishes As we leave your rocky shores, We are going home to England, We may never see you more. Rolling home.... Up aloft amidst her rigging Spreading out her snow white sails, Like a bird with outstretched pinions, On we speed before the gale. Rolling home.... And the wild waves, as we leave them, Seem to murmur as they roll; There are hands and hearts to greet thee In that land to which you go. Rolling home.... Cheer up, Jack, fond hearts await thee, And kind welcomes everywhere; There are hands and hearts to greet thee, Kind caresses from the fair. Rolling home, rolling home, Rolling home across the sea, Rolling home to merry England, Rolling home dear land to thee. "Do they ever sing those words?" I asked suspiciously. The old Irishman looked steadily back. "Sure they sing 'em--sometimes," he said. "It's the same thing as them other songs--only nicer put. Put to be printed," he added. He found me others "put to be printed." Soon I had quite a collection. And with the help of my German teacher I wrote down the music. "There are not enough for a book," he said. "Why don't you write an article, tell where you found them, put them in, and send it to a paper? So you can give them to the world."