Verses 1889-1896 Part 18

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear la.s.s, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear la.s.s, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear la.s.s, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the fairest way to me is a s.h.i.+p's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear la.s.s, And the drum of the racing screw, As she s.h.i.+ps it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear la.s.s, It's "Hawsers warp her through!"

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead!

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear la.s.s, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear la.s.s, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear la.s.s, That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're G.o.d's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start -- We're steaming all-too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-sh.o.r.e wind, And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song -- how long! how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear la.s.s, And The Deuce knows what we may do -- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

THE SEVEN SEAS

1891-1896

DEDICATION

To the City of Bombay

The Cities are full of pride, Challenging each to each -- This from her mountain-side, That from her burthened beach.

They count their s.h.i.+ps full tale -- Their corn and oil and wine, Derrick and loom and bale, And rampart's gun-flecked line; City by City they hail: "Hast aught to match with mine?"

And the men that breed from them They traffic up and down, But cling to their cities' hem As a child to their mother's gown.

When they talk with the stranger bands, Dazed and newly alone; When they walk in the stranger lands, By roaring streets unknown; Blessing her where she stands For strength above their own.

(On high to hold her fame That stands all fame beyond, By oath to back the same, Most faithful-foolish-fond; Making her mere-breathed name Their bond upon their bond.)

So thank I G.o.d my birth Fell not in isles aside -- Waste headlands of the earth, Or warring tribes untried -- But that she lent me worth And gave me right to pride.

Surely in toil or fray Under an alien sky, Comfort it is to say: "Of no mean city am I!"

(Neither by service nor fee Come I to mine estate -- Mother of Cities to me, For I was born in her gate, Between the palms and the sea, Where the world-end steamers wait.)

Now for this debt I owe, And for her far-borne cheer Must I make haste and go With tribute to her pier.

And she shall touch and remit After the use of kings (Orderly, ancient, fit) My deep-sea plunderings, And purchase in all lands.

And this we do for a sign Her power is over mine, And mine I hold at her hands!

THE SEVEN SEAS

A SONG OF THE ENGLISH

Fair is our lot -- O goodly is our heritage!

(Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!) For the Lord our G.o.d Most High He hath made the deep as dry, He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!

Yea, though we sinned -- and our rulers went from righteousness -- Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.

Oh be ye not dismayed, Though we stumbled and we strayed, We were led by evil counsellors -- the Lord shall deal with them!

Hold ye the Faith -- the Faith our Fathers seal]ed us; Whoring not with visions -- overwise and overstale.

Except ye pay the Lord Single heart and single sword, Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!

Keep ye the Law -- be swift in all obedience -- Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.

Make ye sure to each his own That he reap where he hath sown; By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!

Hear now a song -- a song of broken interludes -- A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.

Through the naked words and mean May ye see the truth between As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!

The Coastwise Lights

Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees; Our loins are battered 'neath us by the swinging, smoking seas.