RUDYARD KIPLING
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake 's a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder'd
floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame' Her plates are scarr'd by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the
out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail the trail that ib
always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
And the bhouting 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 mile 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 ram, You have heard the song how Jong! how long'
Pull out on the trail again'
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