Page:McClure8-365.jpg

At the careless end of night
  I thrill to the nearing screw,
I turn to the nearing light,
  And I call to the drowsy crew;
  And the mud boils foul and blue
As the blind bow backs away.
  Do they give me their thanks if she clear the banks?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they.

The beach-pools cake and skim,
  The bursting spray-heads freeze;
I gather on crown and rim
  The grey grained ice of the seas,
  Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
  Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

Through the blurr of the whirling snow,
  Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
  And I look for the homeward fleet.
  Rattle of block and sheet—
Ready about! Stand by!
  Shall I ask them a fee that they fetch the quay?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

I swoop and I surge and I swing,
  In the rip of the racing tide;
By the gates of Doom I sing;
  On the horns of death I ride.
  A ship-length overside
Between the course and the sand,
  Fretted and bound, I bide;
  Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.