The Dorymen by Larry O'Connor
circa 1920

Oh, some can sit in their swivel chairs,
'Midst the City's rush and rumor,
And fret o'er the cares of the world's affairs,
And the woes of the poor consumer.
But I don't envy such gilded ease;
Just give me the salt-soaked ocean breeze,
The lift and surge of the white-capped seas,
And the deck of a halibut schooner.

I want no fuss with the pale-faced cuss -
The clerk, or piano tuner -
Who spend their lives in those stifling hives
In the struggle for more mazuma.
But give me the wind-swept ocean's space,
Where the "flat ones" flop in the dory's waist,
and the salt scud whips in your upturned face,
As you pull for the side of your schooner.

Yes, give me a packet that's sound and tight,
And a skipper with guts to boom her
Up under the heel of the Northern Lights,
Where the grey seas strive to doom her.
Through the grinding ice, where the ground lines freeze,
Through the howling gales and the pounding seas,
For it's into such tranquil spots as these
You must drive with a halibut schooner.

We earn what we get, you may lay to that,
Though we sometimes pull a bloomer;
For the weather that's brewed off Yakutat,
It can change like a woman's humor.
When the "queer thing" flies to the schooner's truck,
We slash our gear and we damn our luck,
But we've time for naught but to cut and duck
For safety, aboard our schooner.

And then, when our schooner is safe in port,
And we land in a boisterous humor,
You thank the gods that our stay is short,
And you wish we were leaving sooner.
We're "rough," and we're "coarse," and we're "loud?"
What then?
We're the salt of the earth: we're Dory men!
And tomorrow night we'll be off again
To the banks, in a halibut schooner.

rediscovered by Lauri Sadorus, IPHC staff member