Mate

A great big brute of a bawling bluenose - Came through the hawse-pipe and don't care who knows! Lives on holystones - wallows in paint - That fond o' prayer-books you'd take him for a saint. Voice like a foghorn, fist like a block, First time he hits you, you think you've struck a rock. Face like a seaboot, never seen to smile: When he hails the topsail yard you hear him half a mile. The sea's been his school and the wide world his college: What he don't know of sailorin' darn well ain't knowledge!