An' I spoke to G.o.d of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer: "I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear.

So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there.

"For human life is chancy at any kind of trade, But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid; So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said.

"They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow, They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so; For now those boats are more like h.e.l.l than anything else I know."

I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get, An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet, But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set.

I have been smit an' bruis]ed, as warned would be the case, An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says; But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace.

An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm, An' I use no knife or pistol an' I never take no harm, For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.

An' I sign for four-pound-ten a month and save the money clear, An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer; An' I believe in Almighty G.o.d an' preach His Gospel here.

The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong, For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong -- _Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the compet.i.tion so strong!_

ANCHOR SONG

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!

Over, s.n.a.t.c.h her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.

Loose all sail, and brace your yards back and full -- Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!

Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love -- Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee; For the wind has come to say: "You must take me while you may, If you'd go to Mother Carey (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o' that!

Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.

Port -- port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot, And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!

Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again -- Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.

And it's time to clear and quit When the hawser grips the bitt, So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!

Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!

Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.

Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!

Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us, Choking down our voices as we s.n.a.t.c.h the gaskets free.

And it's blowing up for night, And she's dropping Light on Light, And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,

Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.

Sick she is and harbour-sick -- O sick to clear the land!

Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us -- Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!

Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us, Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee: Till the last, last flicker goes From the tumbling water-rows, And we're off to Mother Carey (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

THE LOST LEGION

There's a Legion that never was 'listed, That carries no colours or crest, But, split in a thousand detachments, Is breaking the road for the rest.

Our fathers they left us their blessing -- They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed; But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes To go and find out and be d.a.m.ned (Dear boys!), To go and get shot and be d.a.m.ned.

So some of us chivy the slaver, And some of us cherish the black, And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast, And some on -- the Wallaby track: And some of us drift to Sarawak, And some of us drift up The Fly, And some share our tucker with tigers, And some with the gentle Masai (Dear boys!), Take tea with the giddy Masai.

We've painted The Islands vermilion, We've pearled on half-shares in the Bay, We've shouted on seven-ounce nuggets, We've starved on a Seedeeboy's pay; We've laughed at the world as we found it -- Its women and cities and men -- From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben (Dear boys!), We've a little account with Loben.

The ends o' the Earth were our portion, The ocean at large was our share.

There was never a skirmish to windward But the Leaderless Legion was there: Yes, somehow and somewhere and always We were first when the trouble began, From a lottery-row in Manila, To an I.D.B. race on the Pan (Dear boys!), With the Mounted Police on the Pan.

We preach in advance of the Army, We skirmish ahead of the Church, With never a gunboat to help us When we're scuppered and left in the lurch.

But we know as the cartridges finish, And we're filed on our last little shelves, That the Legion that never was 'listed Will send us as good as ourselves (Good men!), Five hundred as good as ourselves.

Then a health (we must drink it in whispers) To our wholly unauthorised horde -- To the line of our dusty foreloopers, The Gentlemen Rovers abroad -- Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter, For the steamer won't wait for the train, And the Legion that never was 'listed Goes back into quarters again!

'Regards!

Goes back under canvas again.

Hurrah!

The swag and the billy again.

Here's how!

The trail and the packhorse again.

Salue!

The trek and the laager again.

THE SEA-WIFE

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o' rovin' men And casts them over sea.

And some are drowned in deep water, And some in sight o' sh.o.r.e, And word goes back to the weary wife And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear, Or hearth or garth or bield, She willed her sons to the white harvest, And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing, To ride the horse of tree, And syne her sons come back again Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again With little into their hands, But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men In the new and naked lands;

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men By more than easy breath, And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, But poor in the goods o' men; So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked life Or win to their hearts' desire, They tell it all to the weary wife That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind That makes the white ash spin; And tide and tide and 'tween the tides Her sons go out and in;

(Out with great mirth that do desire Hazard of trackless ways, In with content to wait their watch And warm before the blaze);