We've ratched beyond the Crcssets
That tusk the Southern Pole,

And dipped our gunnels under
To the dread Agulhas roll.

Beyond all outer charting

We sailed where none have sailed, And saw the land-lights burning

On islands none have hailed;

Our hair stood up for wonder,

But, when the night was done, There danced the deep to windward Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

Strange consorts rode beside us
And brought us evil luck;

The witch-fire climbed our channels,

And danced on vane and truck:

Till, through the red tornado,

That lashed us nigh to blind,

We saw The Dutchman plunging,
Full canvas, head to wind!

We've heard the Midnight Leadsman

That calls the black deep down— Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer, The Thing that may not drown.

On frozen bunt and gasket

The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,

When, manned by more than signed with us, We passed the Isle o' Ghosts!

And north, amid the hummocks,
A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop

That frighted whalers know;

For, down a cruel ice-lane,

That opened as he sped, We saw dead Henry Hudson

Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt God's waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,

So walked His signs and marvels
All naked to our eyes:

But we were heading homeward
With trade to lose or make-
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
In the tailing of our wake!

Let go, let go the anchors;

Now shamed at heart are we To bring so poor a cargo home That had for gift the sea!

Let go the great bow-anchors-
Ah, fools were we and blind-
The worst we baled with utter toil,
The best we left behind!

Coastwise-cross-seas-round the world and back

again,

Whither the flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:

Plain-sail-storm-sail-lay your board and tack

again

And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!

MCANDREW'S HYMN.

LORD, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,

An', taught by time, I tak' it so-exceptin' always

Steam.

From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God

Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. John Calvin might ha' forged the same-enorrmous, certain, slow

Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame-my "Institutio."

I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;

I'll stand the middle watch up here-alone wi' God an' these

My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an'

strain

Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.

Slam-bang too much-they knock a wee-the crosshead-gibs are loose;

But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair

Fine, clear an' dark-a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight,

An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk

to-night!

His wife's at Plymouth. . . . Seventy-One-Two

-Three since he began―

Three turns for Mistress Ferguson.

to blame the man?

an' who's

There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or

slow,

Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty

years ago.

(The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,

Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws-fra' Govan to Park

head!)

Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say:

"Good morrn, McAndrews! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day ?"

Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my

chair