"When I leave this Western Ocean, to the South'ard I will steer,

In a tall Colonial clipper far an' far enough from here,

Down the Channel on a bowline, through the Tropics runnin' free,

When I'm done with this 'ere ocean ... an' when it's done with me.

"An' I'll run my ship in Sydney, an' then I'll work my way

To them smilin' South Seas Islands where there's sunshine all the day,

An' I'll sell my chest an' gear there as soon's I hit the shore,

An' sling my last discharge away, an' go to sea no more.

"It's a pleasant time they have there—they've easy quiet lives;

They wear no clothes to speak on; they've a bunch of browny wives;

They're bathin' all the day long or baskin' on the sand,

With the jolly brown Kanakas as naked as your hand.

"An' I'll lay there in the palm-shade, an' take my ease all day,

An' look across the harbour at the shippin' in the bay,

An' watch the workin' sailormen—the bloomin' same as me

In the workin' Western Ocean afore I left the sea.

"I'll hear them at the capstan, a-heavin' good an' hard;

I'll hear them tallyin' on the fall or sweatin' up the yard;

Hear them lift a halliard shanty, hear the bosun swear and shout,

An' the thrashin' o' the headsheets as the vessel goes about.

"An', if the fancy takes me, as it's like enough it may,

For to smell the old ship-smells again an' taste the salt an' spray,

I can take a spell o' pearlin' or a tradin' cruise or two

Where there's none but golden weather an' a sky that's always blue.

"But I'll do no sailorisin' jobs—I'll walk or lay at ease,

Like a blessed packet-captain, just as lordly as you please,

With a steward for my table an' a boy to bring my beer,

An' a score or so Kanakas for to reef an' haul an' steer.

"An' when I'm tired o' cruisin', up an' down an' here an' there,

There'll be kind Kanaka women wi' the red flowers in their hair

All a-waiting for to meet me there a-comin' in from sea,

When I'm through with this here ocean ... an' that'll never be!

"For I'd hear the parrots screamin' an' the palm-trees' drowsy tune,

But I'd want the Banks in winter an' the smell of ice in June,

An' the hard-case mates a-bawlin', an' the strikin' o' the bell ...

God! I've cursed it oft an' cruel ... but I'd miss it all like Hell.

"Yes, I'd miss the Western Ocean where the packets come an' go,

An' the grey gulls wheelin', callin', an' the grey sky hangin' low,

An' the blessed lights o' Liverpool a-winkin' through the rain

To welcome us poor packet-rats come back to port again.

"An' if I took an' died out there my soul'd never stay

In them sunny Southern latitudes to wait the Judgment Day,

For acrost the seas from England, oh, I'd hear the old life call,

An' the bloomin' Western Ocean it'd get me after all.

"I'd go flyin' like a seagull, as they say old shellbacks do,

For to see the ships I sailed in an' the shipmates that I knew,

An' the tough old North Atlantic where the roarin' gales do blow,

An' the Western Ocean packets all a-plyin' to an' fro.

"An' I'd leave the trades behind me an' I'd leave the Southern Cross,

An' the mollymawks an' flyin'-fish an' stately albatross,

An' I'd come through wind an' weather an' the fogs as white as wool,

Till I sighted old Point Lynas an' the Port o' Liverpool.

"An' I'd fly to some flash packet when the hands was bendin' sail,

An' I'd set up on the main-truck doin' out my wings an' tail,

An' I'd see the tug alongside an' the Peter flyin' free,

An' the pilot come aboard her for to take her out to sea.

"An' I'd follow down to Fastnet light, an' then I'd hang around

There to watch 'em out to westward an' to meet the homeward bound,

For I know it's easy talkin', an' I know when all is said

It's the bloomin' Western Ocean what'll get me when I'm dead!"

C. F. S.