Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/21

 O never will that ship come home, Wherever she be sailing from;
 * I warmed my hands beneath the stars,
 * By a fire made of her broken spars.

And three days dead the Captain lay, But how he died no man may say:
 * I laid him out by the pale moon-rise,
 * And made a shroud of the 'broideries.

With coral and gold I weighted him, And still he was light enough to swim,
 * With silver chains I bound him down,
 * There was never a corpse so hard to drown.

His black hair lines an eagle's nest On a sea girt cliff in the lonesome west;
 * Now, jet for coral there must be,
 * And instead of amber, ebony."