Your favourite sailing or sea based poem?

Jo lemaire - C'est mon bateau (Does this count as a poem? originally a song....

C'est mon bateau,
Mon voyage en solitaire
Rien n'est plus beau,
Que le silence et la mer
Avec lui j'irai,
Jusqu'au bout du monde.

Mon compagnon,
Mon complice de toujours
A l'horizon,
A l'aube d'un nouveau jour.
Nous disparaîtrons
Tous deux ensemble.

REFRAIN:
Ils disent qu'ailleurs
Ce n'est pas mieux qu'ici
Et que d'ailleurs
Il n'y a plus de paradis.

Que ça ne veut pas la peine,
De quitter ce qu'on aime.
Ils disent qu'ailleurs
Il n'y a plus rien à voir

Et qu'il vaut mieux
Abandonner tout espoir.
Et s'avouer perdu
Quand l'océan se déchaîne.
Prenons le large,
Et le vent dans la voile
Sur mon visage,
Restera sans égale.

Rien ni personne ne peut me retenir.
Nous irons loin, au gré du temps
De port en port, et d'escale en escale.
Nous vivrons d'aventures impossibles à décrire
 
I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a peck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the places of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
'There she goes! ' ,
there are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout :
'Here she comes!'

Attributed to many people, but probably Bishop Brent
 
One of my favourites:


No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,
And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made his whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, ‘My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.’

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,
He scour’d the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder’d store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky
They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.’

‘Canst hear,’ said one, ‘the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.’
‘Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.’

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,―
‘Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!’

Sit Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

"The Inchcape Rock" - Robert Southey
 
Not just the words, but back in the safety of Southwold Harbour on Colros with David singing one of his favourite poems/songs, just as he did the last time I saw him. Linda was there too, and I think she might agree with me on this one.
Margaret

Bilbo's Last Song
Day is ended, dim my eyes,
but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
The ship’s beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the Sea.

Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
the wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
beneath the ever-bending sky,
but islands lie behind the Sun
that I shall raise ere all is done;
lands there are to west of West,
where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

Guided by the Lonely Star,
beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
I’ll find the heavens fair and free,
and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
Ship, my ship! I seek the West,
and fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-earth at last.
I see the Star above my mast!
— J. R. R. Tolkein (1892 - 1973)
 
You can't leave out Mr Kipling!

I’VE paid for your sickest fancies; I’ve humoured your crackedest whim—
Dick, it’s your daddy, dying; you’ve got to listen to him!
Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied.
I shall go under by morning, and—Put that nurse outside.
’Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is your time to learn,
And you’ll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn.
Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too,
I’ve made myself and a million; but I’m damned if I made you.
Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three—
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea!
Fifty years between ’em, and every year of it fight,
And now I’m Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:
For I lunched with his Royal ’Ighness—what was it the papers had?
“Not least of our merchant-princes.” Dickie, that’s me, your dad!
I didn’t begin with askings. I took my job and I stuck;
And I took the chances they wouldn’t, an’ now they’re calling it luck.
Lord, what boats I’ve handled—rotten and leaky and old!
Ran ’em, or—opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told.
Grub that ’ud bind you crazy, and crews that ’ud turn you grey,
And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way.
The others they dursn’t do it; they said they valued their life
(They’ve served me since as skippers). I went, and I took my wife.
Over the world I drove ’em, married at twenty-three,
And your mother saving the money and making a man of me.
I was content to be master, but she said there was better behind;
She took the chances I wouldn’t, and I followed your mother blind.
She egged me to borrow the money, an’ she helped me to clear the loan,
When we bought half shares in a cheap ’un and hoisted a flag of our own.
Patching and coaling on credit, and living the Lord knew how,
We started the Red Ox freighters—we’ve eight-and-thirty now.
And those were the days of clippers, and the freights were clipper-freights,
And we knew we were making our fortune, but she died in Macassar Straits—
By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank—
And we dropped her in fourteen fathom; I pricked it off where she sank.
Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was christened for her,
And she died in the Mary Gloster. My heart, how young we were!
So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore,
But your mother came and warned me and I wouldn’t liquor no more:
Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I’d think,
Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink.
And I met M’Cullough in London (I’d turned five ’undred then),
And ’tween us we started the Foundry—three forges and twenty men:
Cheap repairs for the cheap ’uns. It paid, and the business grew,
For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too.
“Cheaper to build ’em than buy ’em,” I said, but M’Cullough he shied,
And we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde.
And the Lines were all beginning, and we all of us started fair,
Building our engines like houses and staying the boilers square.
But M’Cullough ’e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all,
And Brussels an’ Utrecht velvet, and baths and a Social Hall,
And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light,
But M’Cullough he died in the Sixties, and—Well, I’m dying to-night. . . .
I knew—I knew what was coming, when we bid on the Byfleet’s keel—
They piddled and piffled with iron: I’d given my orders for steel!
Steel and the first expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid,
When we came with our nine-knot freighters and collared the long-run trade!
And they asked me how I did it, and I gave ’em the Scripture text,
“You keep your light so shining a little in front o’ the next!”
They copied all they could follow, but they couldn’t copy my mind,
And I left ’em sweating and stealing a year and a half behind.
Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M’Cullough’s side;
He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.
I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;
And I’m no fool to finish if a man’ll give me a hint.
(I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what the drawings meant,
And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent—
Sixty per cent with failures, and more than twice we could do,
And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all for you!
I thought—it doesn’t matter—you seemed to favour your ma,
But you’re nearer forty than thirty, and I know the kind you are.
Harrer an’ Trinity College! I ought to ha’ sent you to sea—
But I stood you an education, an’ what have you done for me?
The things I knew was proper you wouldn’t thank me to give,
And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live.
For you muddled with books and pictures, an’ china an’ etchin’s an’ fans,
And your rooms at college was beastly—more like a whore’s than a man’s—
Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone,
An’ she gave you your social nonsense; but where’s that kid o’ your own?
I’ve seen your carriages blocking the half o’ the Cromwell Road,
But never the doctor’s brougham to help the missus unload.
(So there isn’t even a grandchild, an’ the Gloster family’s done.)
Not like your mother, she isn’t. She carried her freight each run.
But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had ’em—they died.
Only you, an’ you stood it; you haven’t stood much beside.
Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier’s whelp
Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help—my son was no help!
So he gets three ’undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.
I wouldn’t give it you, Dickie—you see, I made it in trade.
You’re saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,
It all comes back to the business. Gad, won’t your wife be wild!
’Calls and calls in her carriage, her ’andkerchief up to ’er eye:
“Daddy! dear daddy’s dyin’!” and doing her best to cry.
Grateful? Oh, yes, I’m grateful, but keep her away from here.
Your mother ’ud never ha’ stood ’er, and, anyhow, women are queer. . . .
There’s women will say I’ve married a second time.
Not quite! But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers’ll fight.
She was the best o’ the boiling—you’ll meet her before it ends;
I’m in for a row with the mother—I’ll leave you settle my friends:
For a man he must go with a woman, which women don’t understand—
Or the sort that say they can see it they aren’t the marrying brand.
But I wanted to speak o’ your mother that’s Lady Gloster still—
I’m going to up and see her, without it’s hurting the will.
Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand’s waiting for you,
If you’ll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.
They’ll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can;
And I’ve only you to trust to! (O God, why ain’t he a man?)
There’s some waste money on marbles, the same as M’Cullough tried—
Marbles and mausoleums—but I call that sinful pride.
There’s some ship bodies for burial—we’ve carried ’em, soldered and packed;
Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.
But me—I’ve too much money, and people might. . . . All my fault:
It come o’ hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin’ vault.
I’m sick o’ the ’ole dam’ business; I’m going back where I came.
Dick, you’re the son o’ my body, and you’ll take charge o’ the same!
I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away,
And they’ll want to send me to Woking; and that’s where you’ll earn your pay.
I’ve thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done—
Quiet, and decent, and proper—an’ here’s your orders, my son.
You know the Line? You don’t, though. You write to the Board, and tell
Your father’s death has upset you an’ you’re goin’ to cruise for a spell,
An’ you’d like the Mary Gloster—I’ve held her ready for this—
They’ll put her in working order and you’ll take her out as she is.
Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and put her aside
(Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!)—the boat where your mother died,
By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank,
We dropped her—I think I told you—and I pricked it off where she sank—
[’Tiny she looked on the grating—that oily, treacly sea—]
’Hundred and eighteen East, remember, and South just three.
Easy bearings to carry—three South—three to the dot;
But I gave M’Andrew a copy in case of dying—or not.
And so you’ll write to M’Andrew, he’s Chief of the Maori Line;
They’ll give him leave, if you ask ’em and say it’s business o’ mine.
I built three boats for the Maoris, an’ very well pleased they were,
An’ I’ve known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew me—and her.
After the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep
Against the time you’d claim it, committin’ your dad to the deep;
For you are the son o’ my body, and Mac was my oldest friend,
I’ve never asked ’im to dinner, but he’ll see it out to the end.
Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar, I’ve heard he’s prayed for my soul,
But he couldn’t lie if you paid him, and he’d starve before he stole!
He’ll take the Mary in ballast—you’ll find her a lively ship;
And you’ll take Sir Anthony Gloster, that goes on ’is wedding-trip,
Lashed in our old deck-cabin with all three port-holes wide,
The kick o’ the screw beneath him and the round blue seas outside!
Sir Anthony Gloster’s carriage—our ’ouse-flag flyin’ free—
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll and forty freighters at sea!
He made himself and a million, but this world is a fleetin’ show,
And he’ll go to the wife of ’is bosom the same as he ought to go—
By the heel of the Paternosters—there isn’t a chance to mistake—
And Mac’ll pay you the money as soon as the bubbles break!
Five thousand for six weeks’ cruising, the staunchest freighter afloat,
And Mac he’ll give you your bonus the minute I’m out o’ the boat!
He’ll take you round to Macassar, and you’ll come back alone;
He knows what I want o’ the Mary. . . . I’ll do what I please with my own.
Your mother ’ud call it wasteful, but I’ve seven-and-thirty more;
I’ll come in my private carriage and bid it wait at the door. . . .
For my son ’e was never a credit: ’e muddled with books and art,
And ’e lived on Sir Anthony’s money and ’e broke Sir Anthony’s heart.
There isn’t even a grandchild, and the Gloster family’s done—
The only one you left me, O mother, the only one!
Harrer and Trinity College—me slavin’ early an’ late—
An’ he thinks I’m dying crazy, and you’re in Macassar Strait!
Flesh o’ my flesh, my dearie, for ever an’ ever amen,
That first stroke come for a warning; I ought to ha’ gone to you then,
But—cheap repairs for a cheap ’un—the doctors said I’d do:
Mary, why didn’t you warn me? I’ve allus heeded to you,
Excep’—I know—about women; but you are a spirit now;
An’, wife, they was only women, and I was a man. That’s how.
An’ a man ’e must go with a woman, as you could not understand;
But I never talked ’em secrets. I paid ’em out o’ hand.
Thank Gawd, I can pay for my fancies! Now what’s five thousand to me,
For a berth off the Paternosters in the haven where I would be?
I believe in the Resurrection, if I read my Bible plain,
But I wouldn’t trust ’em at Wokin’; we’re safer at sea again.
For the heart it shall go with the treasure—go down to the sea in ships.
I’m sick of the hired women—I’ll kiss my girl on her lips!
I’ll be content with my fountain, I’ll drink from my own well,
And the wife of my youth shall charm me—an’ the rest can go to Hell!
(Dickie, he will, that’s certain.) I’ll lie in our standin’-bed,
An’ Mac’ll take her in ballast—an’ she trims best by the head. . . .
Down by the head an’ sinkin’, her fires are drawn and cold,
And the water’s splashin’ hollow on the skin of the empty hold—
Churning an’ choking and chuckling, quiet and scummy and dark—
Full to her lower hatches and risin’ steady. Hark!
That was the after-bulkhead . . . . She’s flooded from stem to stern. . . .
Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to learn!

Or in lighter vein:


KING SOLOMON drew merchantmen,
Because of his desire
For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
From Tarshish unto Tyre:
With cedars out of Lebanon
Which Hiram rafted down,
But we be only sailormen
That use in London Town.


We bring no store of ingots,
Of spice or precious stones,
But that we have we gathered
With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the tropics,
In frost upon the floe,
And jeopardy of every wind
That does between them go.
And some we got by purchase,
And some we had by trade,
And some we found by courtesy
Of pike and carronade—
At midnight, ’mid-sea meetings,
For charity to keep,
And light the rolling homeward-bound
That rode a foot too deep.

By sport of bitter weather
We’re walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
To the slings upon the yard.
Six oceans had their will of us
To carry all away—
Our galley's in the Baltic,
And our boom's in Mossel Bay!

We’ve floundered off the Texel,
Awash with sodden deals,
We’ve slipped from Valparaiso
With the Norther at our heels:
We’ve ratched beyond the Crossets
That tusk the Southern Pole,
And dipped our gunnels under
To the dread Agulhas roll.

Beyond all outer charting
We sailed where none have sailed,
And saw the land-lights burning
On islands none have hailed;
Our hair stood up for wonder,
But, when the night was done,
There danced the deep to windward
Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

Strange consorts rode beside us
And brought us evil luck;
The witch-fire climbed our channels,
And flared on vane and truck:
Till, through the red tornado,
That lashed us nigh to blind,
We saw The Dutchman plunging,
Full canvas, head to wind!

We’ve heard the Midnight Leadsman
That calls the black deep down—
Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
The Thing that may not drown.
On frozen bunt and gasket
The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
When, manned by more than signed with us,
We passed the Isle o’ Ghosts!

And north, amid the hummocks,
A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Henry Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt God’s waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
With trade to lose or make—
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
In the tailing of our wake!

Let go, let go the anchors;
Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchors—
Ah, fools were we and blind—
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!
 
I came across this gem recently. With apologies

I must go down to the sea again, in a modern high-tech boat,
And all I ask is electric, for comfort while afloat,
And alternators, and solar panels, and generators going,
And deep cycle batteries with many amperes flowing.

I must go down to the sea again, to the autopilot's ways,
And all I ask is a GPS, and a radar, and displays,
And a cell phone, and a weatherfax, and a shortwave radio,
And compact disks, computer games and TV videos.

I must go down to the sea again, with a freezer full of steaks,
And al I ask is a microwave, and a blender for milkshakes,
And a watermaker, air-conditioner, hot water in the sink,
And e-mail and a VHF to see what my buddies think.

I must go down to the sea again, with power-furling sails,
And chart displays of all the seas, and a bullhorn for loud hails,
And motors pulling anchor chains, and push-button sheets,
And programs which take full charge of tacking during beats.

I must go down to the sea again, and not leave friends behind,
And so they never get seasick we'll use the web online,
And all I ask is an Internet with satellites over me,
And beaming all the data up, my friends sail virtually.

I must go down to the sea again, record the humpback whales,
Compute until I decipher their language and their tales,
And learn to sing in harmony, converse beneath the waves,
And befriend the gentle giants as my synthesizer plays.

I must go down to the sea again, with RAM in gigabytes,
And teraflops of processing for hobbies that I like,
And software suiting all my wants, seated at my console
And pushing on the buttons which give me complete control.

I must go down to the sea again, my concept seems quite sound,
But when I simulate this boat, some problems I have found.
The cost is astronomical, repairs will never stop,
Instead of going sailing, I'll be shackled to the dock.

I must go down to the sea again, how can I get away?
Must I be locked in low-tech boats until my dying day?
Is there no cure for my complaint, no technologic fix?
Oh, I fear this electric fever is a habit I can't kick.
 
I must go down to the sea again
of that there is little doubt
to be perfectly frank
the holding tank
is in dire need of pumping out.

Des Sleightholme


“Where Corals Lie”

The deeps have music soft and low
When winds awake the airy spry,
It lures me, lures me on to go
And see the lands where corals lie

By mount & steed, by lawn and rill,
When night is deep, and moon is high,
The music seeks and finds me still,
And tells me where the corals lie.

Yes, press my eyelids close, ’tis well;
But far the rapid fancies fly
To rolling worlds of wave and shell,
And all the lands where corals lie.

Thy lips are like a sunset glow,
Thy smile is like a morning sky,
Yet leave me, leave me, let me go
And see the land where corals lie.

Richard Garnett
 
I found an article awhile back, some academic research on this gent and the state he was in when he dreamt this one up, let's just say he made a certain Pete Docherty look like a straitlaced choirboy.

Despite that I have always found this strangely enthralling, but it has a really dark side to it!
 
Thank you everyone for all your wonderful poems and thoughts so far! Please do keep them coming!

Here is another favourite - it is from 'Whale Nation', by Heathcote Williams :

"We are all in the same boat,
That boat is the spaceship earth,
a blue jewel glowing in the light of space,
radiant and shining with the fluid of life -
- the all encompassing sea".

And see if you can guess who composed this rather philosophical (?) thought, quite a few years ago now - she is quite famous, and a keen sailor :

'Sailing on a sunny day,
With a fresh breeze blowing
With maybe someone you really care for
Is the nearest thing to heaven
I will ever get on this earth'.
 
Here's a short one. Well known to London Corinthian SC members.

My hand is on the tiller, my boat is on the wing.
Obey me Wind and Water, for here I am a King!
But teach me all the virtues that men must have afloat,
For we are proud, but humble, who go about by boat.
So when at Heaven's harbour, I hear St Peter's hail
I may cry back "From HAMMERSMITH! A FRIEND! BROUGHT UP IN SAIL!"
A.P.Herbert
1960
 
Song Of The Seamen and The Mary Rose

Mary Rose, the mighty sailing sea vessel glided majestically across the waves
She had robustly and bravely sailed the ocean's deep blue sea for many a night and day
With the ocean's heaving, gusting winds blowing off her proud stern and mast
Sailing victorious and proud - her billowing, grande white sails were cast
The calm, liquid waters of the sea...flowing quietly purple blue for now-
Unconscious of the coming storm that would beat furious against her bow
Behind the sea’s Bering shore were inlets left unexplored
Those abstruse, unchartered waters left from a strange world before

Her robust, alabaster sails whipped violent and furious in the wind
Impending doom was yelling their cries while brave seamen-slept within
Down below, inside their cabins they all peacefully slept
Wrapped in the secure watch that their gallant captain kept
The oceans blue and purple waves beat savage against starboard and port
As Captain Noe standing fearless - at first quake, did not the storm report
**The beams of the Mary Rose began to restlessly moan and creep
While the roaring, rolling waves beat furious against her feet
Her alabaster sails rose proud- beating mighty against the gusts
While deep inside the bow- the sleeping seamen thrust


Suddenly...they heard the captain's distraught voice
“Awake, all of ye’ ”, Captain Noe forcefully roared
“Awake! Awake… all ye’ seaman come quickly up on board”!
The obedient seaman rose hastily to the sound of their captain's fierce command
Her helm wheel whirling rebelliously out of control - while her stalwart sails fully expand

The savage spirit of the sea reigned fierce with rage and fear
While the brave captain fought - his loyal seaman brought up the rear
They courageously fought together - not silenced by the eye of death
As the sea raged violently against them with its brutal, menacing breath
**To save their mighty Mary Rose, they’d dip their very souls in blood
Leaving themselves merciless against this drunken, mighty flood
With valiant heart - steeled together, they fought bravely without rest
Fighting to save their spirited ship - defending her stalwart breast

With canvas, sails and muscle strong - they fought against the brine
Calling out in earnest cries… “Quickly, bring more bucket and twine”!
With plank and bow standing fierce - between them and their fate
The raging ocean’s fierce, purple waves - the sea they could not hate
Their means- their birth- their mighty ship and all of their proud names
They’d fiercely stand and fight till death to protect Mary Rose's steadfast frame
Far more potent than flesh and bone are souls and feet - not made of clay
And fight they would, ore’ land, water and stern-until their dying day

**The morning brought the warming sun which rose broad above the waves
The winds had tamed their violent voice - against captain and seaman brave
With unshakable courage and seaman’s wit - not once were spirits broke
Each cheered his mate and captain strong - as they fought with steady stroke
Their peril fought in days of danger and night filled with pain
Their manly courage did not wane - their fight - was not in vain
For all the courageous seamen and their brave Captain Noe
Joined together in hand and spirit to save their proud Mary Rose
~
 
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