Yet stand the strain however hard it dings.
Then, underneath, the long lean fiery sweep
Of a proud hull exulting in her sheer,
That rushes like a diver to the leap,
And is all beauty without spot or peer.
Built on the Clyde, by men, of strips of steel
That once was ore trod by the asses’ heel.
A Clyde-built ship of fifteen hundred tons,
Black-sided, with a tier of painted ports,
Red lead just showing where the water runs.