Classic Poem

The derelict's crew are Hate and Fate and Revenge and Treachery
And Stealth, who steers her under the bows of ships that trust the sea.
And her captain, Death, is a cursèd wraith who sails her without lights,
And her course is set by the Devil in Hell on still or stormy nights.

And Hate, the bosun, swears, ‘By God, we 'll sink a liner or barque!’
And Fate, the mate, snarls, ‘Down with 'em, into the rotting dark!’
And Treachery gloats, ‘Our masts are gone, and our gunnels under the tide,’
And Revenge raves, ‘The sea sacked us, we 'll scuttle the best that ride!’

And Captain Death, on the sloughing deck, calls, ‘Ho, what ho, my men!
The Devil, our master, knows the course of seven-score ships and ten.
He 'll drive us across their track when the windy ruck of night is thick.
We are water-logged, but the dead have dogged more live men than the quick!’

O Hate and Fate and Treachery, and Revenge and Stealth and Death,
Are the derelict's crew and captain; and, by the Devil's breath,
I 'd rather meet fog in the Channel's throat, or a hurricane at the Horn,
Than the derelict! the derelict! the slinking, slimy derelict!
The ghoulish, gutted derelict, with never a sign to warn!