Rudyard Kipling.
1865-1936
THEREs a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield And the ricks stand gray
to the sun, Singing:Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover And your English summers
done.
You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have
heard the songhow long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!
Ha done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, Weve seen the seasons through, And its time to
turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trailthe trail that is always
new.
Its North you may run to the rime-ringd sun, Or South to the blind Horns 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, And life runs
large on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow
damp; And Id 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 Bar on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new.
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 ships 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 Trailthe trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And
the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; Its
Gang-plank up and in, dear lass, Its Hawsers warp her through! And its All clear aft on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail, Were backing down on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread! When
foot by foot we creep oer the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! Its 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 Trailthe trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wakes a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And
the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powderd floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her
plates are scarrd by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For were booming down
on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Were sagging south on the Long Trailthe trail that is always
new.
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. Theyre all old friends on the old
trail, our own trail, the out trail, Theyre Gods own guides on the Long Trailthe trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start Were steaming all too slow, And its
twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the
off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the songhow long! how long! Pull out
on the trail again!
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