Rudyard Kipling

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
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Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail, the trail that is always
new.

Follow the Romany Patteran
Sheer to the Austral light,
Where the bosom of God is the wild read more

Follow the Romany Patteran
Sheer to the Austral light,
Where the bosom of God is the wild west wind,
Sweeping the sea floors white.

Now it is not good for the Christian's health
To hustle the Aryan brown,
For the Christian read more

Now it is not good for the Christian's health
To hustle the Aryan brown,
For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles,
And it weareth the Christian down.
And the end of the fight is a tombstone white
With the name of the late deceased--
And the epitaph drear: "A fool lies here
Who tried to hustle the East."

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!" But it's "Savior of 'is country" when read more

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!" But it's "Savior of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot.

The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds--
The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband an' 'e gives 'er read more

The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds--
The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband an' 'e gives 'er all she needs;
But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun',
They're just the same as you an' me, a'-plyin' up an' down.