I am eighty years old and somewhat,
But I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old Clipper Days
When men loved ships like women,
And going to sea was more
Than signing on as a deckhand
And scrubbing a cabin floor,
Or chipping rust from iron
And painting . . . and chipping again . . .
In the days of Clipper Sailing
The sea was the place for men:
You could spy our great ships running
White-clouded, tier on tier;
You could hear their trampling thunder
As they leaned to, racing near;
And it was "heigh and ho, my lad,"
And "we are outward bound," -
And we sang full many a chantey
As we walked the capstan round,
And we sang full many a chantey
As we drove through wind and wet
To the music of Five Oceans
Ringing in my memory yet . . .
Go drive your dirty freighters
That fill the sky with reek, -
But we - we took in sky-sails
High as mountain peaks;
Go, fire your sweaty engines
And watch your pistons run, -
We had the wind to serve us,
The living wind, my son,
And we didn't need propellers
That kicked a mess about,
But we hauled away with chanteys
Or we let the great sails out . . .
And I'm eighty year old and somewhat -
And I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old Clipper Days!
