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38
THE SEVEN SEAS
An' I was drowsin' on the hatch—sick—sick wi' doubt an' tire:
'Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!'
Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs—again, an' once again,
When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin'-chain;
An' by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain.
Light on the engine-room—no more—bright as our carbons burn.
I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.
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Obsairve! Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard—
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But—average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra' port to port—
I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from grace to wrath—to sin by folly lead,—
