Cicely Fox Smith Poems

I leaned on the taffrail, I saw the day dying
Like a flock of gay birds round the royal yards flying;
High over the sunset I saw the young moon,
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The ships he served of old,
When blood was young and hot,
Long wrecked or scrapped or sold;
Their very names forgot;
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'Don't sound,' old Job, the ringer, said,
'No muffled peal for I,
But pull your lustiest, lads, instead,
When I do come to die,'
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They cheered her from the waterside,
They watched her from the shore
Drop swiftly down the Mersey tide
Till she was seen no more,
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By Chinese Charley's junk-store, by the Panama Saloon,
Where 'longshore loafers lean and spit, at morning, night, and noon, -
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They are going to pull down the old rectory next year,
So I hear,
And put up an ugly little red
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By Murphy’s Hotel as I loitered along
I heard an old shellback a-singing his song,
A crazy old chorus, a song of no skill,
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It was the old
Vindictive
out of Dover put to sea,
And she sailed to the Lowlands low,
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Dear, O homeland, and dear, O sweet land of mine,
Dear, yea, very dear, O land of my birth;
But O strong and strange the voice that comes singing
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Times, they say, must change, and folks must change with 'em too:
That's how it is in the West, now the old lights seem to fail:
...