“The ships steam south
From the harbor mouth
In warlike, grim array!
They load the seas,
And on every breeze
I hear the brass bands play
As the squadrons steer away.
“From each foreign shore
They are coming o’er
The oceans big and small,
With cheering crews
And churning screws,
And guns and shot and all.
And Admirals that appal!
“In tropical seas
They are thick as bees.
Oh, ne’er on the Trojan strand
Was gathered a fleet
So hard to beat
As sails to that southern land.
’Tis terribly, terribly grand!
“O sailorman stout,
What’s it all about?
If you happen to know tell me.
That the foe has no chance
His troops to advance
To the field we all agree,
And the devil a ship has he.”
He shifted his quid,
The sailorman did,
To the starboard side of his face.
His trousers he hitched
As he rolled and pitched,
Maintaining his dubious place
With a certain maritime grace.
He looked at the sky
With a studious eye,
And this singular yarn he spun:
“When the wind’s sou’west
Every man’s possessed
Of a devil!—no son-of-a-gun
Can tell what’s fit to be done.”
Perhaps it was naught
But a sailorman’s thought,
But I said to myself: “I’m blest
If I can’t mark down
A man of renown
Who is living in mental unrest
Where the wind is forever sou’west.”