Clipper Days.

I am eighty years old and somewhat,
But I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old clipper days.
Then men loved ships like women
And going to sea was more
Than signing on as a deck hand,
And scrubbing a cabin floor,
Or chipping rust from iron,
And painting—and chipping again.
In the days of clipper sailing
The sea was the place of men.
You could spy our great ships running
White-clouded, tier on tier;
You could hear their trampling thunder
As they leaned-to, racing near;
And it was "Heigho and ho, my lad!"
And we are "Outward bound."
And we sang full many a chantey
As we walked the capstan round.
Aye, we sang full many a chantey
As we drove through wind and wet,
To the music of five oceans,
That rings in memory yet!
Go, drive your dirty freighters
That fill the sky with reek—
But we—we took in skysails
High as a mountain peak!
Go, fire your sweaty engines,
And watch your pistons run—
We had the winds to serve us,
The living winds, my son!
And we didn't need propellers
That kicked a mess about;
But we hauled away with chanteys,
Or we let the great sails out.
And I'm eighty years old and somewhat,
And I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old clipper days.

Harry Kemp ("Cassells Magazine").