The Buccaneers.

Oh, not for us the easy mirth     Of men that never roam!     The crackling of the narrow hearth,     The cabined joys of home!     Keep your tame, regulated glee,     O pale protected State!     Our dwelling-place is on the sea,     Our joy the joy of Fate!     No long caresses give us ease,     No lazy languors warm,     We seize our mates as the sea-gulls seize,     And leave them to the storm.     But in the bridal halls of gloom     The couch is stern and strait;     For us the marriage rite of Doom,     The nuptial joy of Fate.     Wine for the weaklings of the town,     Their lucky toasts to drain!     Our skoal for them whose star goes down,     Our drink the drink of men!     No Bacchic ivy for our brows!     Like vikings, we await     The grim, ungarlanded carouse     We keep to-night with Fate.     Ho, gamesters of the pampered court!     What stakes are those at strife?     Your thousands are but paltry sport     To them that play for life.     You risk doubloons, and hold your breath.     Win groats, and wax elate;     But we throw loaded dice with Death,     And call the turn on Fate.     The kings of earth are crowned with care,     Their poets wail and sigh;     Our music is to do and dare,     Our empire is to die.     Against the storm we fling our glee     And shout, till Time abate     The exultation of the sea,     The fearful joy of Fate.