English poetry

Poems in English


The Merchantmen

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.

Coastwise cross-seas round the world and back again
Where the paw shall head us or the full Trade suits
Plain-sail storm-sail lay your board and tack again
And that’s the way we’ll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

We bring no store of ingots,
Of spice or precious stones,
But what 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 rowed 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 shipped from Valparaiso
With the Norther at our heels:
We’re 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 of 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 Hendrick Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt God’s waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marrvels
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-anchor
Ah, fools were we and blind
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!

Coastwise cross-seas round the world and back again,
Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail storm-sail lay your board and tack again
And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!


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Poem The Merchantmen - Rudyard Kipling