The Derelict-

I left her headed for Lord-knows-where, in latitude forty-nine, With a cargo of deals from Puget Sound and her bows blown off by a mine; I saw her just as the sun went down; I saw her--floating still, And "I hope them deals will let her sink afore so long," said Bill. It warn't no use to stand by her; she could neither sail nor steer, With the better part of a thousand miles between her and Cape Clear. The sea was up to her waterways, and gaining fast below, But I'd like to know that she went to her rest as a ship has a right to go. For it's bitter hard on a decent ship, look at it how you may When she's worked her traverse and done her trick and sailed with the best in her day, To be floatin' around like a nine-day drowned on the Western Ocean swell, With never a one to hand and reef or steer and strike the bell: No one to light 'er binnacle lamps an' see they're burnin' bright, Or scour her planking, or scrape her seams when the days are sunny and bright; No one to sit on her hatch and smoke and yarn when the day was done, And say, "That gear wants reevin' new some fine dog-watch, my son!" No one to stand by the halyard pin when it's comin' on to blow; Never the roar of "Rio Grande" to the watch's stamp and go; Just the sea-birds sittin' along the rail and callin' the long day through Like the souls of old dead sailormen that used to be her crew. Never a port of all her ports for her to fetch again; Nothing; only the sea and the sky, the sun and the wind and the rain. It's cruel hard on a decent ship, and so I tell you true That I wish I knew she had gone to her rest as a good ship ought to do.