Upon the heaving surface of the Western Ocean there was enacted over again the fable of the hare and the tortoise.
Most of the famous chanteys were born in the packet service and shouted as working choruses by the tars of this Western Ocean before the chanteyman perched upon a capstan and led the refrain in the clipper trade.

You will find their origin unmistakable in such lines as these: As I was a-walking down Rotherhite Street, 'Way, ho, blow the man down; A pretty young creature I chanced for to meet, Give me some time to blow the man down.
Soon we'll be in London City, Blow, boys, blow, And see the gals all dressed so pretty, Blow, my bully boys, blow.
Haunting melodies, folk-song as truly as that of the plantation negro, they vanished from the sea with a breed of men who, for all their faults, possessed the valor of the Viking and the fortitude of the Spartan.

Outcasts ashore--which meant to them only the dance halls of Cherry Street and the grog-shops of Ratcliffe Road--they had virtues that were as great as their failings.

Across the intervening years, with a pathos indefinable, come the lovely strains of Shenandoah, I'll ne'er forget you, Away, ye rolling river, Till the day I die I'll love you ever, Ah, ha, we're bound away..