The Child and the Mariner

He spoke of his own deeds; of how he sailed

One summer’s night along the Bosphorus,

And he,—who knew no music like the wash

Of waves against a ship, or wind in shrouds—

Heard then the music on that woody shore

Of nightingales, and feared to leave the deck,

He thought ’twas sailing into Paradise.

To hear these stories all we urchins placed

Our pennies in that seaman’s ready hand;

Until one morn he signed for a long cruise,

And sailed away—we never saw him more.

Could such a man sink in the sea unknown?

Nay, he had found a land with something rich,

That kept his eyes turned inland for his life.

“A damn bad sailor and a landshark too,

No good in port or out”—my grandad said.