A Captain Of The Press-Gang.

Shipmate, leave the ghostly shadows,     Where thy boon companions throng!     We will put to sea together     Through the twilight with a song.     Leering closer, rank and girding,     In this Black Port where we bide,     Reel a thousand flaring faces;     But escape is on the tide.     Let the tap-rooms of the city     Reek till the red dawn comes round.     There is better wine in plenty     On the cruise where we are bound.     I've aboard a hundred messmates     Better than these 'long-shore knaves.     There is wreckage on the shallows;     It's the open sea that saves.     Hark, lad, dost not hear it calling?     That's the voice thy father knew,     When he took the King's good cutlass     In his grip, and fought it through.     Who would palter at press-money     When he heard that sea-cry vast?     That's the call makes lords of lubbers,     When they ship before the mast.     Let thy cronies of the tavern     Keep their kisses bought with gold;     On the high seas there are regions     Where the heart is never old,     Where the great winds every morning     Sweep the sea-floor clean and white,     And upon the steel-blue arches     Burnish the great stars of night;     There the open hand will lose not,     Nor the loosened tongue betray.     Signed, and with our sailing orders,     We will clear before the day;     On the shining yards of heaven     See a wider dawn unfurled....     The eternal slaves of beauty     Are the masters of the world.