And the trampling, cursing watches and the pouring, pooping seas,
And the ice on spar and jackstay, and the cracking, volleying sail,
And the tatters of our voices blowing down the roaring gale ...
I recalled the West Coast harbours just as plain as yesteryear—
Nitrate ports, all dry and dusty, where they sell fresh water-dear—
Little cities white and wicked by a bleak and barren shore,
With an anchor on the cliff-side for to show you where to moor;
And the sour red wine we tasted, and the foolish songs we sung,
And the girls we had our fun with in the days when we were young;
And the dancing in the evenings down at Dago Bill's saloon,