I didn't cross in a liner (I hadn't my passage by me!);
I spotted a Liverpool cargo tramp, smelly and greasy and grimy,
And they wanted hands for the voyage, and the old man guessed he'd try me.
She kicked like a ballet-dancer or a range-bred bronco mare;
She rolled till her engines rattled; she wallowed, but what did I care?
It was "Go it, my bucking beauty, if only you take me there!"
Then came an autumn morning, grey-blue, windy and clear,
And the fields—the little white houses—green and peaceful and dear,
And the heart inside of me saying, "Take me, Mother, I'm here!
"Here, for I thought you'd want me; I've brought you all that I own—