’I caught him young and I used him sore,
So you never shall startle Frankie more,
Without capsizing Earth and her waters.
  (All round the Sands!)

’I did not favour him at all. 
I made him pull and I made him haul—­
And stand his trick with the common sailors.
  (All round the Sands!)

’I froze him stiff and I fogged him blind. 
And kicked him home with his road to find
By what he could see in a three-day snow-storm
  (All round the Sands!)

‘I learned him his trade o’ winter nights,
’Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights
On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing.
  (All round the Sands!)

’Before his beard began to shoot,
I showed him the length of the Spaniard’s foot—­
And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later.
  (All round the Sands!)

’If there’s a risk which you can make. 
That’s worse than he was used to take
Nigh every week in the way of his business;
  (All round the Sands!)

’If there’s a trick that you can try,
Which he hasn’t met in time gone by,
Not once or twice, but ten times over;
  (All round the Sands!)

’If you can teach him aught that’s new,
  (A-hay O!  To me O!)
I’ll give you Bruges and Niewport too,
And the ten tall churches that stand between ’em.’
  Storm along my gallant Captains!
  (All round the Horn!)

THE JUGGLER’S SONG

When the drums begin to beat
Down the street,
When the poles are fetched and guyed,
When the tight-rope’s stretched and tied,
When the dance-girls make salaam,
When the snake-bag wakes alarm,
When the pipes set up their drone,
When the sharp-edged knives are thrown,
When the red-hot coals are shown,
To be swallowed by and bye—­
Arre Brethren, here come I!

Stripped to loin-cloth in the sun,
Search me well and watch me close! 
Tell me how my tricks are done—­
Tell me how the mango grows? 
Give a man who is not made
To his trade
Swords to fling and catch again,
Coins to ring and snatch again,
Men to harm and cure again. 
Snakes to charm and lure again—­
He’ll be hurt by his own blade,
By his serpents disobeyed,
By his clumsiness bewrayed,
By the people laughed to scorn—­
So ’tis not with juggler born!

Pinch of dust or withered flower,
Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,
Serve his need and shore his power,
Bind the spell or loose the laugh!

THORKILD’S SONG

There’s no wind along these seas. Out oars for Stavanger! Forward all for Stavanger! So we must wake the white-ash breeze, Let fall for Stavanger! A long pull for Stavanger!

Oh, hear the benches creak and strain! (A long pull for Stavanger!) She thinks she smells the Northland rain! (A long pull for Stavanger!)