Swing round your aching search-light—'twill show no haven's peace.

Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, greybearded seas!
Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest—
And you aren't one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest!

But when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,
At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,
Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taff rail dressed,
You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

'You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;

You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head;