In the log of 29th April, 2005, Alex was waxing fairly lyrical about their surroundings and came up with most of the first line of Dawn as being appropriate to the situation. Having a limited library, he expressed the desire “wish I could remember it all”. He received a couple of responses and this is one of them (I’m assuming that the copyright ran out a while ago!):
AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, “Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse–and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness– And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
“How sweet is mortal Sovranty!”–think some: Others–“How blest the Paradise to come!” Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
‘Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Galaxy Song
Alex has often referred to the stars in the logs and, in the log of 7th May, 2005, Alex started to get a bit specific about why this, why that and how much of the other. As always, the readers were on to it in a flash. Malcom C provided a couple of very informative answers that are incorporated in the Log. Fiona S was a bit lateral in her response and provided the words to the Galaxy Song from the Meaning of Life.Warning: This has the potential to become a significant earworm – read at your own risk
Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown, And things seem hard or tough, And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft,
And you feel that you’ve had quite eno-o-o-o-o-ough,
Just remember that you’re standing on a planet that’s evolving And revolving at nine thousand miles an hour. It’s orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it’s reckoned, ‘Round the sun that is the source of all our power. Now the sun, and you and me, and all the stars that we can see, Are moving at a million miles a day, In the outer spiral arm, at fourteen thousand miles an hour, Of a galaxy we call the Milky Way.
Our galaxy itself contains a hundred million stars; It’s a hundred thousand light-years side to side; It bulges in the middle sixteen thousand light-years thick, But out by us it’s just three thousand light-years wide. We’re thirty thousand light-years from Galactic Central Point, We go ’round every two hundred million years; And our galaxy itself is one of millions of billions In this amazing and expanding universe.
Our universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding, In all of the directions it can whiz; As fast as it can go, that’s the speed of light, you know, Twelve million miles a minute and that’s the fastest speed there is. So remember, when you’re feeling very small and insecure, How amazingly unlikely is your birth; And pray that there’s intelligent life somewhere out in space, ‘Cause there’s bugger all down here on Earth!
(The Meaning Of Life, paroles et musique d’Eric Idle)
Oz Sea Shanty
From Malcom C (with apologies to Banjo) on the eve of Berri’s arrival in Falmouth.
Once two jolly sailors sailed upon the briny sea, Under the shade of a worn ‘n torn sail, And they drank and they drank as they waited for the Lizard Light, Toasting Berrimilla with fast dwindling ale.
Sailing Berrimilla, sailing Berrmilla, Who’ll come a sailing Berrimilla with us. And they drank and they drank as they waited for the Lizard Light Who’ll come a sailing Berrimilla with us.
They tapped into the rumcask, for’rd of the dunny space. Pint after pint they sank at quite a steady pace, They drank and they drank as they sailed on past the mannacles Thank god for self steering to get us into port
Sailing, Berrimilla etc
Up rode the customs riding on their zodiac, On climbed the agents one, two three, Where’s that bloody rumcask you’ve got in the f’ward hold, You’ll come a sailing to Falmouth, you’ll see,
Sailing, Berrimila, Sailing Berrimilla, etc etc
Up jumped the sailors and pissed into the harbour mouth You’ll never take us sober, you’ll see. And they drank and they drank to finish off the contraband, Up comes their mooring, their last day at sea.
Sailing Berrimilla, Sailing Berrimilla, We’ve been a’sailing Berrimilla o’er the sea, Sydney to Cape Horn, northwards to the polar star. We’ve been a’sailing Berrimila at sea.
Contributed by Ian of Chatham in the UK – In the log of 30th October 2005
With apologies to all poets, past and present!!
Down in the Southern ocean with seas so steep Battles Berri onward while landlubbers sleep Waves crash down from as high as the mast And the crew want to know how long it will last
A consultation or two with the doctor each day Help these two old farts stagger on their way Not for this pair are the slippers and pipe Should I bid for their t-shirt using Hammersnipe?
They beat to the north to escape the worst But it doesn’t work, this ploy of theirs For the examiner hears of it and scuppers the plan And orders more waves, then speeds up the fan
But “How did ‘he’ know?” ask the wily old pair The answer is behind them, up in the air! Old alby glides by all pink in the light And reports back to ‘him’ what’s in his sight
The examiner laughs, there’s a glint in his eye And the bomb doors are opened as alby flies by They jink to the left and then the right But it’s too late now, Kevvo’s covered in shite
It gets worse each day, can they take much more For it’s still a long way to the old barn door The folks at home read the sitreps each day While the old farts onboard begin to pray
And it’s not over yet for while the duo heave to The examiner plans more than a knockdown or two Over she goes, to one twenty or more Gear flying about to land on the floor
But Alex writes on during this terrible spell For this old sailor has much to tell Stories of Merlin – defunct, dead, deceased Lost sandals and glasses on their journey east
Jammed at the table by elbows and knees Squinting to hit one in three right keys Pete wedged in the bog, a little unsure Shouts that this wasn’t in the bloody brochure
And wet socks are the order of the day For the ferals have eaten the boots away The doctor’s on ration, this isn’t a jest The stock is depleted in the medicine chest
Water cannot be made without wrigglies we hear tell And the genny and solar panel are both shot to hell The tinnies in the eski have rusted away Someone should have given them a monthly spray
Wet party gear on to change sail once more As Berri is nearing the elusive barn door Then at last, it’s here, they are finally through And their shout can be heard……
