The Beaufort Scale Poem by Res John Burman

Without regard for life or limb,
The weather, it comes storming in.
The waves do build, the wind does wail,
As the weather climbs the Beaufort Scale.

At Force Six, Strong Breeze, large waves with foam
The fishing fleet starts to think of home.
At Seven, Near Gale, the foam does streak
Out-doors is no place for the weak!

At Eight, the waves are eighteen feet,
And cars veer across the street!
At Strong Gale Nine, the slates do fly,
And chimneys shake against the sky.

At Ten, Whole Gale, whole trees do go,
And whole roofs too, “Look out below! ”
Force Eleven has thirty seven foot waves,
And has taken many to their graves!

But Force Twelve has another dread name,
And that dread name is Hurricane!
Ninety miles an hour winds, sixty foot seas,
Will do with you just what they please!

And wind and wave can go much higher,
If I told you now you’d think me liar!
But in the shriek and wave and wail,
You’ll pray to God that you prevail!

And when it’s over you won’t believe,
This friendly breeze knocked you to your knees,
You count your dead, lay them away,
And brace to face another day.

But remember when the fishers head away,
And sailors seek a sheltered bay,
When the weather is unfit for all,
The life-boat is ready for your call.

Those brave, brave men will always sail
No matter what the Beaufort scale.
They’ll do their best for you and me,
And all in peril on the sea!

7th May 2008