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 lass,
That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
They're God'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 miles to our little lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
You have heard the call of the off-shore wind
And the voice of the deep-sea rain—
You have heard the song—how long! how long?
Pull out on the trail again!