He is blooded to the open and the sky,
  He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
  Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
 
  With my "Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!"
  [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
  Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
  For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear—
  Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel—
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer;—
  Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
  Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
  Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!

  With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!"
  [Oh the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
  And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
  Through the cañons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you alone—
  Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan—
  I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun—
  And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you're done,
  To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.