THE seas of England are our old delight,
Let the green billows of the shingled shore, Like wild birds in her gardens, evermore
Sing sweet to her ships that lofty loom in sight.
The grey sea-nettle be our fortitude, Sturdily blowing where the clear wave sips 0, be the glory of our men and ships Rapturous woe-unheeding hardihood !
There is great courage in a land that hath Liberty guarded by th' unearthly seas ; And still to find peace at the last in these How many a sailor hath sailed down to death!
Their names are like a glory in old song ; Their records are like bays along the years; Their jubilation is the cry man hears Sailing sun-fronted the vast deeps among.
The seas of England are our old delight, Let the green billows of the shingled shore, Like wild birds in her gardens, evermore Sing sweet to her ships that lofty loom in sight.
W. J. DE LA MARE.
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