  Oh, some may sing of the surging sea, or chant of the raging main; Or tell of the taffrail blown away by the raging hurricane. With an oh, for the feel of the salt sea spray as it stipples the guffy's cheek! And oh, for the sob of the creaking mast and the halyard's aching squeak! And some may sing of the galley-foist, and some of the quadrireme, And some of the day the xebec came and hit us abaft the beam. Oh, some may sing of the girl in Kew that died for a sailor's love, And some may sing of the surging sea, as I may have observed above. Oh, some may long for the Open Road, or crave for the prairie breeze, And some, o'ersick of the city's strain, may yearn for the whispering trees. With an oh, for the rain to cool my face, and the wind to blow my hair! And oh, for the trail to Joyous Garde, where I may find my fair! And some may love to lie in the field in the stark and silent night, The glistering dew for a coverlet and the moon and stars for light. And others long for the Open Road, as I may have remarked before. Ay, some may sing of the bursting bomb and the screech of a screaming shell, Or tell the tale of the cruel trench on the other side of hell. And some may talk of the ten-mile hike in the dead of a winter night, And others chaunt of the doughtie Kyng with mickle valour dight. And some may long for the song of a child and the lullaby's fairy charm, And others yearn for the crack of the bat and the wind of the pitcher's arm. Oh, some have longed for this and that, and others have craved and yearned; And they all may sing of whatever they like, as far as I'm concerned. THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORKTranscriber's NotesOriginal variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained. |
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