Oh, some may sing of the surging sea, or chant
of the raging main;
Or tell of the taffrail blown away by the raging
hurricane.
With an oh, of the feel of the salt sea spray as
it stippls the guffy's cheek!
And oh, for the sob of the creaking mast and the
halyard's aching squeak!
And some may sing of the galley-foist, and some of
the quadrireme,
And some of the day when the xebec came and hit us
abaft the beam.
Oh, some may sing of the girl in Kew that died for
a sailor's love,
And some may sing of the surging sea, as I may have
observed above.
Oh, some may long for the Open Road, or crave for
the prairie breeze,
And some, o'er sick of the city's strain, may yearn
for the whispering trees.
With an oh, for the rain to cool my face, and the
wind to blow my hair!
And oh, for the trail to Joyous Garde, where I may
find my fair!
And some may love to lie in the field in the stark
and silent night,
The glistening dew for a coverlet and the moon and
stars for light.
Let others sing of the soughing pines and the winds
that rustle and roar,
And others long for the Open Roadm as I may have
remarked before.
Ay, some may sing of the bursting bomb and the
screech of a screaming shell,
Or tell the tale of the cruel trench on the other
side of hell.
And some may talk of the ten mile hike in the dead
of a winter night,
And others chaunt of the doughtie Kyng with mickle
valour dight.
And some may long for the song of a child and the
lullaby's fairy charm,
And others yearn for the crack of the bat and the
wind of the pitcher's arm.
Oh, some have longed for this and that, and others
have craved and yearned;
And they all may sing of whatever they like, as far
as I'm concerned.
