Oh yesterday, I t'ink it was, while cruisin' down the street, I met with Bill. "Hullo," he says, "let's give the girls a treat." We'd red bandanas round our necks 'n' our shrouds new rattled down,...
Mother Carey? She's the mother o' the witches 'N' all them sort o' rips; She's a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is, She's a sight too fond of ships; She lives upon an iceberg to the norred,...
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. ...
The meet was at "The Cock and Pye By Charles and Martha Enderby," The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn Long since the haunt of Benjamin The highwayman, who rode the bay....
On old Cold Crendon's windy tops Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse, Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows, Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows, And foxes lie on short-grassed turf,...
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,...
Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer, Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse, Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer, For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise. John Lydgate.
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....
Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come Westward, in search of food, over the snow; Westward until the salt sea drowns them dumb; Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go....
All day they loitered by the resting ships, Telling their beauties over, taking stock; At night the verdict left my messmate's lips, "The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock." ...
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills. And April's in the west wind, and daffodils....
Twilight. Red in the West. Dimness. A glow on the wood. The teams plod home to rest. The wild duck come to glean. O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool;...
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,...
In the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees, And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. ...