And by their precious lading from Libya's threshing floors
They keep the wolf from raiding ten thousand Roman doors.
They are not carved or gilded or dainty in design;
Their hulls are stoutly builded of seasoned Pontic pine.
For strength their makers plan them, their purpose to fulfil,
And the mariners that man them are stouter, stronger still.
Alike when nights are starless and hidden breakers boom,
When rudderless and sparless they drift to certain doom,
Or when the pirate sallies in sunshine from his lair
With murder in his galleys, death is their daily share.
Some foolish folk disdain ships that are not swift or "long,"
But the heroes of the grain-ships deserve undying song.
They brave the worst of weather, they face the direst dread,
To keep our homes together and give the people bread.
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