We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome hull, And we flew the pretty colours of the cross-bones and the skull; We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,...
Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland, On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf, Where the bent grass beats upon the unplowed poorland And the pine-woods roar like the surf. ...
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy Calling the cows home. ...
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving. Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving....
Out beyond the sunset could I but find the way, Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay, And there's the Blessed City, so the sailors say, The Golden City of St. Mary. ...
Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast....
The Loch Achray was a clipper tall With seven-and-twenty hands in all. Twenty to hand and reef and haul, A skipper to sail and mates to bawl "Tally on to the tackle-fall,...