Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865866. L’Envoi
THERE ‘s 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 summer ‘s done.’ | |
You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind | 5 |
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, | 10 |
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. | |
It ‘s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun, | |
Or South to the blind Horn’s hate; | |
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, | 15 |
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 Trail—the trail that is always new. | 20 |
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray 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, | 25 |
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 Trail—the 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; | 30 |
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, | 35 |
As she lifts and ‘scends on the Long Trail—the 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; | 40 |
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. | |
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, | 45 |
And the sirens hoot their dread! | |
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, | 50 |
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. | |
O 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-powder’d floors | 55 |
Where the scared whale flukes in flame! | |
Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass, | |
And her ropes are taut with the dew, | |
For we’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. | 60 |
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, | 65 |
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. | |
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start— | |
We’re steaming all too slow, | 70 |
And it ‘s 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 song—how long! how long! | 75 |
Pull out on the trail again! | |
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, | |
And the deuce knows what we may do— | |
But we’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. | 80 |