But when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,
At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,
Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,
You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.
You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;
You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figurehead;
While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine
Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine!
Hull down hull down and under she dwindles to a speck,
With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.
All's well all's well aboard her she's left you far behind,
With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.
Her crews are babes or madmen ? Her port is all to make?
You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?
Well, tinker up your engines you know your business best
Shis taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!
THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS
1890
[This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul Jones, an American pirate. It is founded on fact.]
. . . AT THE close of a winter day,
Their anchors down, by London town, the
Three Great Captains lay;
And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye,
And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby,
