There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, read more

There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, great or small,
And help to build the wooden wall!

For why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?
The air is cut read more

For why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?
The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses.

And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses.

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill.

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill.

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

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.

For she is such a smart little craft,
Such a neat little, sweet little craft--
Such a read more

For she is such a smart little craft,
Such a neat little, sweet little craft--
Such a bright little,
Tight little,
Slight little,
Light little,
Trim little, slim little craft!

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
read more

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes.

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
read more

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.