Page:The Five Nations.djvu/27

Rh Through the blur of the whirling snow,

Or the black of the inky sleet,

The lanterns gather and grow,

And I look for the homeward fleet.

Rattle of block and sheet—

"Ready about—stand by!"

Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing

In the rip of the racing tide,

By the gates of doom I sing,

On the horns of death I ride.

A ship-length overside,

Between the course and the sand,

Fretted and bound I bide

Peril whereof I cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!