ROMP OF THE SEA.
(Off the coast of Boulogne at midnight, awaiting the Spaandam.)
O, the romp and the rift of the shifting sea!
The pomp of the lifting sea!
O, the hurrying rills where the cauldron spills
On the rocks in their scurrying glee!
O, the bellowing leagues of the sea’s intrigues,
As we row like a galley-slave,
Where the breakers glide as we slither and ride
On the back of a balky wave!
O, we whistle a song as we swash along
Through gullies and mountain high,
As we hunt the dark, and we hunt the rain,
And we hunt the haunts of the wind’s domain,
For a glim in the inky sky.
O, the bloom of the night as she heaves in sight,
On the desolate water’s wings!
O, the bellying sheer (and no Chaplain near)
Where the old ship’s ladder swings.
O, the pomp and the rift, the slip and the shift,
The wheel of the Stygian foam;
O, the shimmering shroud where the thunders crowd,
And wilder our dreams of home.