Proem
The graves are yours that have no name,
Yours were the keels that left no trace,
Save in smoke and sorrow and shame,—
What have ye now to face?
Yours were the times when blood was red,
Yours were the years when life was cheap;
All is over: you are dead:
Gentlemen, soundly sleep!
Soundly sleep with steel at your side,
Dagger and cutlass, stained to the hilt,
Lying so still—Death for your bride—
In your splendid courage and guilt.
You have fought the fight, you have paid the vow,
Sleep an ye can, then, under the years;
We drain one beaker unto you now:
I give you: The Buccaneers!