Classic Poem

Over the blue waves leaping
The eager vessel flies;
It laughs at the green isles sleeping,
And it smiles at the sunny skies.
But the pilot's song is of sadness,
For he knows in the midnight deep
That the white waves rise to madness,
And he knows where the drowned men sleep.
But “Yo ho! Yo ho!” sing the men below;
“We care not a fig what wind may blow,
Yo ho! Yo ho!”

The ships that are passing hail them,
Loud echoes the sailor's shout;
Did ever their bold hearts fail them,
While the flagons of wine held out?
The pilot dreams of the haven,
And the woman he loves ashore:
Black hair like the wing of the raven—
Will he never see it more?
But “Yo ho! Yo ho!” sing the men below;
“Give us wine, and the ship to the bottom may go!
Yo ho! Yo ho!”

The pilot thinks of his darling
By her grey-haired mother's side—
(“Yelp!” go the hoarse waves snarling)
His beauty, his heart's own pride.
He thinks of the Church so quiet
On the side of the old green hill
(The wind is beginning to riot,
And the ropes are never still).
“Yo ho! Yo ho!” sing the men below;
“Shall the wind's chirp frighten us. No, no, no.
Yo ho! Yo ho!”

The evening saddens and darkens,
And the roaring surges swell;
The pilot sighs, as he hearkens
To the sound he knows so well.
Yet in spite of the sea-waves' warning
There is hope in his song to-night,
For England's cliffs in the morning
May flash on the seamen's sight.
But “Yo ho! Yo ho!” sing the men below;
“When the bottle goes round, the fun will grow,
Yo ho! Yo ho!”

But the ship from her course is swerving;
On the sharp reefs howl the waves
With ponderous white, crests curving,
And the green gulfs yawn like graves.
And the song of the pilot changes,
As he stands at the helm—still there—
While his eye o'er the black night ranges,
To the wild song of despair.
Still “Yo ho! Yo ho!” sang the men below,
For death can be drowned in the bowl, we know.
“Yo ho! Yo ho!”