Oh, a little wayside tavern is a jolly thing to know Where there's mugs and waiting tables and an open fire a-glow; And it's good to have a song to sing at work as well as play; And it's pleasant to have memories of boyhood's yesterday; And they say a tried companion walking down an endless road Makes the heavy footfall lighter, shares the burden of the load... And I see my sweetheart walking with her head held proud and high And I wish that I was with her where the bells ring in the sky... But there's nothing like a ship at sea with all her sails full-spread And the ocean thundering backward 'neath her mounting figurehead. Oh, it's once you be a sailor you must go to sea again. "There's nothing like a ship at sea," Sing Ho! ye sailormen. Harry Kemp WHERE LIES THE LAND? Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. SAILING DIRECTIONS 23 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? SAILING DIRECTIONS Drive her, drive her westward till she sweeps across the line, Though her shrouds are taut and tattered and her decks are deep in brine, Though the sky is scudding orange and the sea is frothing wine, Bring her home! Give her sail and drive her though the cargo roll and shift, Though the seas come over the counter and the wind from the polar drift, Though the wheel kick and the jibs snap as the rollers fall and lift—, Bring her home! Swing her always westward though you cut her rig to lace, Though the green sea rakes her as the steep swells race, Though the salt freeze on the rigging, the fulmar on your face Bring her home! Gordon Malherbe Hillman GHOST SHIPS On still blue nights of darkness and high stars, And sweet hulls treading old blue water downHulls that have lain where winding seaweed lies Deep down, deep down, by many an ancient town. Ah! they return, those foundered gypsy ships. Hearing the drum of screws they cannot rest; Old ports call out and quiet quays and slips, There are fair isles to sight, new seas to crest; And when a night comes stiller than the dawn They rise again—and sail forever on. Gordon Seagrove BELOW THE LINE Below the Line a rusty tramp is steaming Toward Rio and the southern ports I know, BELOW THE LINE Below the Line the phosphorus is gleaming 25 The torn cloud-drift floats past in streamers fine; The southern ocean calls, and I am going, Below the Line the tall, slim palms are waving Somewhere somewhere below the Line. Below the Line, mid wild, rank vegetation, Huge, hanging creatures shutting out the skies, Below the Line in mystic meditation A graven god looks with stark, staring eyes Upon the ancient ruins of his city, O'errun with mango-tree and tangled vine. The god and jungle call and I am going Somewhere somewhere below the Line. Below the Line are shining white-roofed cities With plazas where at dusk the maidens stroll; The native band strums forth its plaintive ditties, While on the beach the combers boom and roll. A haunting fragrance drifts upon the breezes, From where low walls thick, flowering plants confine. The southern cities call and I am going, Somewhere somewhere below the Line. William Daniel THE PORT O' MISSING SHIPS She lies across the western main, Her quays are packed with reeling mists- And silent o'er her harbour bar No sound of life is in her streets, Yet ship by ship steals through the mists There many a good galleon Has made her anchor fast, And many a tall caravel Her journeying ends at last; For one went down in tropic seas, 'Mid icebergs of the north; Thus ship by ship and crew by crew |