The Song of the Derelict
What harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine?
Ho braggart! I care not for boasting of thine—
A fig for the wrath of the sea!
Some night to the lee of the land I shall steal,
(Heigh-ho to be home from the sea!)
No pilot but Death at the rudderless wheel,
(None knoweth the harbor as he!)
To lie where the slow tide creeps hither and fro
And the shifting sand laps me around, for I know
That my gallant old crew are in Port long ago—
For ever at peace with the sea!