Lyrics

The Brookes Slaver (C Cain)

In Liverpool they start their draftsmen young,
sixteen I was when I took the pen.
I dreamt of curves and the sweep of lines,
that would round the Horn and round the Cape,
circumnavigate the wonder of this earth.

I dipped my quill into the well, I used my ink to map the decks.
I drew my plans with care and pride,
each unit had its place, not a hands width went to waste.
“I charge you to fit more cargo in the hold.”

Draw the spaces, draw the lines, make them neat, and make them fine.
Boxes on the floor, 6ft by 1ft 4.
Draw the spaces, draw the lines, make them neat, and make them fine,
and Mr Brookes couldn’t ask for any more.

Remembering the day he came past my bench, full of fat with a greedy eye.
He looked at my plans and said he needed more:
“Pack them like my silver spoons, lay them on their side,
every space you fit brings me a guinea prize.”

When my work was through, I presented it,
He said “I’ll build this ship, but before I do, there’s one thing more…”,
and I realised what I’d done as I started to draw.
I traced the form of some four hundred souls
In every line I drew the noise
In every shape I saw fathers and their boys
Mothers and their girls between the devil and the wake
Only four in ten would manage not to break

In every shoulder, I drew the pain
In every leg, the weight of chain
In every head, the fevered brain
Books on a shelf, packed to fit, this freight won’t need to sit.