As I rode ashore last Sunday from my gallant brigantine,
In the island of Jamaica where I have lately been,
And carelessly I wandered, not caring where I went,
And toward a rich plantation my steps I slowly bent.
And the orange trees decorate the field with green and yellow buds,
And occasionally my mind is filled with melancholy thoughts,
That when I get tired of rambling I would sit me down and rest,
And I was thinking of the little ones at home, the land that I love best
Now my parents live in harmony, they are laboring at their ease,
But I am doing my foolishness to plough the raging seas,
And I am doing my foolishness to ramble night and day,
Now I’ll sing a song of old Ireland for to drive dull care away.
And when my song was at an end, I was a-feeling at my ease
I arose to pick some oranges that grew upon the trees,
And there a female form I spied that filled me with delight,
She wore the robes of innocence, her dress was snowy white.
Her dress was snowy white, my boys, bound round and trimmed with green,
And a silken scarf around her neck her shoulders for to screen,
Her hair hung o’er her shoulders as black as any sloes,
And her rolling eye attracted me, her cheeks were like the rose.
I modestly saluted her saying, “Good morning, my pretty fair maid,”
And with a kind reception, “Good morning sir,” she said,
I told her I was a sailor that lately came from sea,
And that I belonged to that brigantine that laid anchored in the Bay.
And we both got down together and we chatted for a while,
And I told her many a hard old yarn which caused her for to smile,
But when I arose to leave her, she gave me this address,
“You call in and see my husband, he will treat you to the best.”
Then I was kindly introduced to a noble-looking man,
Who kindly saluted me and took me by the hand,
And the wine was on the table and the dinner was served up soon,
And we all sat down together, spent a jovial afternoon.
The “Old Songs That Men Have Sung” column that ran in the October 20, 1922 issue of the pulp magazine Adventure (pictured) included the following request sent in by one of the column’s many avid readers:
Michael Dean (the same Irish-Minnesotan featured often in this column) was one of hundreds of American and Canadian readers of “Old Songs” who sang and pursued traditional folksongs with the help of the far-flung community of singers and amateur collectors brought together by the column and its enthusiastic editors. Dean corresponded by letter with “Old Songs” editors Robert Frothingham and Robert Winslow Gordon as well as other “Old Songs” readers and contributors (the column ran song texts sent in by readers responding to published requests). In addition to published requests and contributions, Dean swapped songs with these people directly by mail. It was this correspondence that ultimately led to Gordon travelling by train with his wax cylinder recording machine to record Dean’s singing in 1924.
We do not know if Dean ever tracked down a complete version of “The Gallant Brigantine” (he did manage to get a version of “Paul Jones, the Privateer” and sing it for collector Franz Rickaby the following summer). The version above is transcribed primarily from Alan Lomax’s 1938 recording of Beaver Island, Michigan singer Johnny W. Green with a few tweaks inspired by other versions found in the Canadian Maritimes. It is a peculiar song with an almost punchline-like ending. Not the typical conclusion to a story like this!