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.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail,

They're God's own guides on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start

We're steaming all-too slow,

And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long! how
long?

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And The Deuce knows what we may do

But we're back once more on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

We're down, hull down on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

DEDICATION

TO THE CITY OF BOMBAY

The Cities are full of pride,
Challenging each to each-
This from her mountain-side,

That from her burthened beach.

They count their ships full tale-
Their corn and oil and wine,
Derrick and loom and bale,

And rampart's gun-flecked line;
City by City they hail:

"Hast aught to match with mine?"

And the men that breed from them

They traffic up and down,

But cling to their cities' hem

As a child to the mother's gown.

When they talk with the stranger bands, Dazed and newly alone;

When they walk in the stranger lands, By roaring streets unknown;

Blessing her where she stands

For strength above their own.