I am the son of Bor the Buccaneer,
Who frighted the first petrel to her lair,—
I bend my bows where danger drives most near,
My grave shall be where dying is most fair.
(O ye who prowl by sea-wind, hear ye this!)
Down the white way that marks the peril-line
I hear the mad white mermaids, drunk o’ the deep,
Those snarling, singing voices of the brine,
From throats that yawn for eyes that never sleep.
(O fickle mermaids of the barren kiss!)