The tiny full-rigger predestined to ride
To its cable of thread on its green-painted tide
In its wine-bottle world, while the old world went on
And the sailor who made it was long ago gone.
And still as he worked at the toy on his knee
He would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea,
Thermopylæ, Lightning, Lothair and Red Jacket,
With many another such famous old packet,
And many a bucko and dare-devil skipper
In Liverpool blood-boat or Colonies' clipper;