New Zealand Verse/At Sea
XLIX.
At Sea.
When the Southern gale is blowing hard,
The watch are all on the topsail yard.
The watch are all on the topsail yard.
And when five come down where six went up,
There’s one less to share the bite and sup.
There’s one less to share the bite and sup.
A name is missed when the roll they call;
A hand the less for the mainsail haul.
A hand the less for the mainsail haul.
They steal his rags and his bag and bed;
Little it matters to him who’s dead.
Little it matters to him who’s dead.
Instead of the stone and carven verse,
This is his epitaph, curt and terse:
This is his epitaph, curt and terse:
“John Smith, A.B.,
Drowned in latitude 53,
A heavy gale and a following sea.”
Drowned in latitude 53,
A heavy gale and a following sea.”
We have lost the way to the open sea;
We have missed the doom we hoped to dree.
We have missed the doom we hoped to dree.
For the big ships running their easting down
Are far from the din of Sydney town.
Are far from the din of Sydney town.
Instead of the clean blue sunlit wave,
Our bones will lie in a darksome grave.
Our bones will lie in a darksome grave.
For the means to live we barter life.
Would I were back in the old-time strife,
Once more to be
Reefing topsails in 53
In the blinding drift from the angry sea.
Would I were back in the old-time strife,
Once more to be
Reefing topsails in 53
In the blinding drift from the angry sea.
D. H. Rogers.