Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,
And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,
And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
Of a black Bilboa tramp;
With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,