Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1104

 RUDYARD KIPLING

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind And the thresh of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song how long' how long! Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shcm, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it 's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out

trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail the trail that is

always new.

It 's North you may run to the rime-ring'd sun,

Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the

out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp, With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the

out trail,

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail the trail that is always new.

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