There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, |
And the ricks stand grey to the sun, |
Singing: «Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, |
«And your English summer’s done.» |
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You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, |
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; |
You have heard the song - how long? how long? |
Pull out on the trail again! |
Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, |
We’ve seen the seasons through, |
And it's time to turn on the old trail, |
our own trail, the out trail, |
Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new! |
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It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun |
Or South to the blind Horn's hate; |
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, |
Or West to the Golden Gate - |
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, |
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the trail that is always new. |
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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 Bilbao tramp, |
With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, |
And a drunken Dago crew, |
And her nose held down on the old trail, |
our own trail, the out trail |
From Cadiz south on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new. |
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There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, |
Or the way of a man with a maid; |
But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea |
In the heel of the North-East Trade. |
Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, |
And the drum of the racing screw, |
As she ships it green on the old trail, |
our own trail, the out trail, |
As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new? |
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See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, |
And the fenders grind and heave, |
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And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; |
It's «Gang-plank up and in», dear lass, |
It's «Hawsers warp her through!» |
And it's «All clear aft» on the old |
trail, our own trail, the out trail, |
We're backing down on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new. |
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О the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, |
And the sirens hoot their dread, |
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When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep |
To the sob of the questing lead! |
It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, |
With the Gunfleet sands in view, |
Till the Mouse swings green on the old |
trail, our own trail, the out trail, |
And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new. |
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О the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light |
That holds the hot sky tame, |
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors |
Where the scared whale flukes in flame! |
Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass, |
And her ropes are taut with the dew, |
’re booming down on the old |
trail, our own trail, the out trail. |
We’re sagging south on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new. |
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Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, |
And the shouting seas drive by, |
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, |
And the southern Cross rides high! |
Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, |
That blaze in the velvet blue. |
They’re all old friends on the old trail, |
our own trail, the out trail, |
They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail - |
the trail that is always new. |
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Fly forward, О my heart, from the Foreland to the Start - |
We’re steaming all too slow, |
And it’s twenty thousand miles to our little lazy isle |
Where the trumpet-orchids blow! |
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And the voice of the deep-sea rain; |
You have heard the song - how long? - how long? |
Pull out on the trail again! |
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The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, |
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’re back once more on the old trail, our own |
trail, the out trail, |
We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail - the trail |
that is always new! |