  All in the feathered palm-tree tops the bright green parrots screech, The white line of the running surf goes booming down the beach, But I shall never see them, though the land lies close aboard, I’ve shaped the last long silent tack as takes one to the Lord. Give me the Scripters, Jakey, ’n’ my pipe atween my lips, I’m bound for somewhere south and far beyond the track of ships; I’ve run my rags of colours up and clinched them to the stay, And God the pilot’s come aboard to bring me up the bay. You’ll mainsail-haul my bits o’ things when Christ has took my soul, ’N’ you’ll lay me quiet somewhere at the landward end the Mole, Where I shall hear the steamers’ sterns a-squattering from the heave, And the topsail blocks a-piping when a rope-yarn fouls the sheave. Give me a sup of lime-juice; Lord, I’m drifting in to port, The landfall lies to windward and the wind comes light and short, And I’m for signing off and out to take my watch below, And—prop a fellow, Jakey—Lord, it’s time for me to go! |
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