The Port O'Call

Our hull is seldom painted,     Our decks are seldom stoned;     Our sails are patched and cobbled     And chains by rust marooned.     Our rigging is untidy,     And all things in accord:,     We always sail on Friday     With thirteen souls on board.     For all the days save Friday     Were days of dark despair,     The fourteenth died of fever     Whenever he was there.     Our good ship is the Chancit,     Her oldest name of all;     But, in the ports were blown to,     Shes called the Port o Call.     Our captain old Wot Matters,     Our first mate young Hoo Kares,     Our cook is Wen Yew Wan Tit,     And so the Chancit fares.     The sweethearts, wives, and others,     And all we left behind,     Have many names to go by;     But mine is Never Mind.     We fear no hell hereafter,     We hope for no reward,     We always sail on Friday     With thirteen men on board.     And every winds a fair wind,     That suits us, one and all,     And every port were blown to     We call our port-of-call.     Ive seen the poor boy striving     For just one chance to rise:     The light of truth and honour     And genius in his eyes.     His school-mates jeered and mocked him,     They mocked him through the town:     And his relatives scarce pitied,     While his parents crushed him down.     Ive seen the young man fighting     The present and the past,     Till he triumphed in the city,     And fame was his at last!     And generous, but steadfast,     All for his Country then,     Unspoiled and all unconscious     He stood, a prince of men.     Ive seen the husband ruined,     And drunken in the street,     When the World was all before him,     And the ball was at his feet,     Thrust down by fate most bitter,     Most cruel and unjust;     His children taught to loathe him,     And his name dragged in the dust.     .     .     .     .     .     Our hull is never painted,     Our decks are never stoned,     The cabin air is tainted,     The good ship is disowned;     Our rigging is untidy,     And all things in accord,     We always sail on Friday,     With thirteen hands on board.     Ive seen strong bushmen slaving,     As men neer slaved before,     To win homes from the scrublands     And win their country more.     And Ive seen their children scattered     As work-slaves on the soil;     And the old-age-pension begged for     After fifty years of toil!     And the Bush Muse is discarded,     Theres a wanton on the track,     And her panderers are sneering     At old soldiers of Out Back     The motor cars go racing     Past the Heroes of Long Years,     And the dust is in their faces     And the laughter in their ears.     We care not where were bound for,     Nor how the storm might howl;     For every winds a fair wind,     And every wind a foul.     Theres nothing left to sail for     Save that we keep our decks,     And watch for other castaways     On rafts from other wrecks.