The sea attracts the soul that deeply yearns
For freedom and adventure, like the iron
Which is by magnet drawn; and so it be,
That ’mongst the cruder natures one may see
The dreamer’s eye of Masefield or a Byron,
Or wit and humor of a Robert Burns.
And sailors love to sing, or tell a tale,
Songs set to music by the wave and wind,
And yarns with tang and laughter of the deep,
And on a day when all things seem asleep
In golden calm, you best may find
The squatting crew itself of these avail.
On such a day a sailor-lad did sing
A little lay which to Sordino’s page
Had spirit-flight, as never he had known,
It was to him the lifting of a dawn
From night’s and sorrow’s dark and fearful cage,
The skylark’s rise and soar on raptured wing.
“Adieu, my native land, adieu,
I leave thee for a while,
As fade thy cliffs amid the blue,
And trembling of thy smile!
I sing my parting song with tears,
But not as cravens do,
Thy love casts out the coward’s fears
And leaves a courage true.”
“For England’s sons did ever find
Their strength in love of thee,
Thy name, a lode-star to their mind,
Guides o’er the stormy sea;
They breathe it as the lover does
Her’s whom he most adores;
And where the English standard goes
Her name lights up the shores.”
“There is a land far in the west,
Bright with the sun-set’s glow,
Arising from the billow’s crest,
With mountain-peaks of snow,
With palms and roses in the vales,
And fountain-gleams among,
And rich as any fairy-tale,
In gold and fruit and song.”
“And men have sailed the weary leagues
To find this wondrous realm,
Have spurned the danger and fatigues,
And waves that overwhelm,
To reach that land, but none returned
To England from his quest,
Unless his heart within him burned
With thanks for what is best.”
“For English isles is Paradise
To every native child,
Since things more precious he doth price
Than riches of the wild,
The gold of love is more than all,
And faith more rare than gems,
He heeds not the alluring call
And glittering diadems.”
“He loves his land, he loves his God,
Be riches what they may,
The bleeding Christ upon the rood
Protects him on his way,
And meets he luck, as it may hap
To any sailor boy,
He brings it to his mother’s lap,
Her thanks, his greatest joy.”
“Adieu, adieu, my native land,
Adieu, my father’s home,
Adieu my lass, O, may thy hand
Greet me when back I come!
For sailor’s heart, when outward bound,
Is filled with sorrow’s pain,
But hope lies glimm’ring on the sound--
Of coming home again.”