Be yours the prudent sailing
From harbor up to town,
Your timid women wailing
Whenever rain comes down;
A mild and easy creeping
From market-place to mart,
A sound and dreamless sleeping,—
Sign of a moral heart!
Be yours the dreary climbing
Of hemp and mesh and mast,
And after proper priming
Up to a Mate at last;
Then years of grog-and-waters,
Of starb’rd, luff, and lee,
And seven sons and daughters
In a shanty by the sea.
And endless out-and-inning,
And ceaseless back-and-forth,
And toil that lacks the sinning
To make the toiling worth;
And never blood of human
To paint your tarry hand,—
And sorrow come o’ woman
To meet you when you land.
Be yours the feeble fighting
That keeps the liver white,
Your turn-the-other smiting
That makes a mock of Fight;—
A truce to your cautious guarding
Of the bastions of the bay ...
I sail to a wild bombarding
Of the white walls of Cathay!