written by John Masefield
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All in the feathered palm-tree tops the bright green parrots screech,
The white line of the running surf goes booming down the beach,
But I shall never see them, though the land lies close aboard,
I've shaped the last long silent tack as takes one to the Lord.
Give me the Scripters, Jakey, 'n* my pipe atween my lips,
I'm bound for somewhere south and far beyond the track of ships;
I've run my rags of colours up and clinched them to the stay,
And God the pilot's come aboard to bring me up the bay.
You'll mainsail-haul my bits o' things when Christ has took my soul,
'N' you'll lay me quiet somewhere at the landward end the Mole,
Where I shall hear the steamers' sterns a-squattering from the heave,
And the topsail blocks a-piping when a rope-yarn fouls the sheave.
Give me a sup of lime-juice; Lord, I'm drifting in to port,
The landfall lies to windward and the wind comes light and short,
And I'm for signing off and out to take my watch below,
And - prop a fellow, Jakey - Lord, it's time for me to go!
|Works by this author are in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 51 years or less.|