RUDYARD KIPLING
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
Or the way of a man with a maidj But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea
In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
As she lifts and Vends on the Long Trail the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the
crate,
And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It 's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass, ' It J s 'Hawsers warp her through And it 's> 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail,
We're backing down on the Long Trail the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
And the sirens hoot their dread' When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep
To the sob of the questing lead' It 's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunflcet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail,
the out trail,
And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail the trail that is always new.
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