"Your mither's God's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel',

"Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' Hell.

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They mak' him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt,

"A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt,

66

Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red

hot rod,

"But come wi' Us" (Now, who were They?) "an' know the Leevin' God,

"That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,

"But swells the ripenin' cocoanuts an' ripes the woman's breast."

An' there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice

For me, six months o' twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.

'Twas on me like a thunderclap-it racked me through an' through

Temptation past the show o' speech, unnamable

an' new

The Sin against the Holy Ghost? . . . An' under all, our screw.

That storm blew by but left behind her anchorshiftin' swell,

Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell.

Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!

Yet was Thy hand beneath my head: about my feet Thy care

Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o'

despair,

But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!

We dared na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire,

An' I was drowzin' on the hatch-sick-sick wi' doubt an' tire:

"Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!

Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs-again, an' once again,

When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin'-chain;

An' by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty

plain.

Light on the engine-room—no more-clear as our carbons burn.

I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past

return.

Obsairve! Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard

Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord, But-average fifteen hunder' souls safe-borne fra port to port

I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna' blame the thought?

Maybe they steam from grace to wrath-to sin by folly led,

It isna mine to judge their path-their lives are on my head.

Mine at the last-when all is done it all comes

back to me,

The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon

the sea.

We'll tak' one stretch-three weeks an' odd by any road ye steer—

Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington—ye need an

engineer.

Fail there-ye've time to weld your shaft-ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke,

Or make Kerguelen under sail three jiggers burned wi' smoke!

An' home again, the Rio run: it's no child's play

to go

Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow

The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift

Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift.

(Hail, snow an' ice that praise the Lord: I've met them at their work,

An' wished we had anither route or they anither

kirk.)

Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings

All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.

Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear

The passengers, wi' gloves an' canes-an' this is what I'll hear:

"Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender's comin' now."

While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.

They've words for everyone but me-shake hands wi' half the crew,

Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.

An' yet I like the wark for all we've dam', few pickin's here

No pension, an' the most we earn's four hunder' pound a year.

Better myself abroad? Maybe. I'd sooner starve

than sail

Wi' such as call a snifter-rod ross.

for nightingale.

Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford

To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans. I'm older than the Board.

A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are

close,

But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to those.

(There's bricks that I might recommend—an' clink the fire-bars cruel.

No! Welsh-Wangarti at the worst-an' damn all patent fuel!)

Inventions?

Ye must stay in port to mak' a

patent pay.

My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that

business lay,