A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.
From flapping togs his sea-legs win some rhythm of old romance
That’s proper to the keeper of the paths that lead to France;
For what were all the soldiers worth that ever tossed a gun,
Without the ships and sailor-men to pit them ’gainst the Hun.
His hands are often cruel cold; his heart is oftener warm,
For in its depths he knows ’tis he that shields the world from harm.
Because I know it too, my heart beats warmer when I meet
A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.