The bounding deck beneath me,
The rocking sky o'erhead,
White, flying spume that whips her boom,
And all her canvas spread.

Her topmast rakes the zenith,
Where planets shoal and spawn,
And to her stride God opens wide
The storm-red gates of dawn!

Then walk her down to Rio,
Roll her " cross the line;
China Joe's a-tendin" door
Down to Number Nine.
Deep they lie in every sea,
Land's End to the Horn —
For every sailorman that dies
A sailorman is born.

Along the battered sea-wall,
Our women in the rain
Full wearily have scanned the sea
That brings us not again.

Oh, I'll come home, my dearie —
Aye, one day I'll come home,
With heaped-up hold of Spanish gold
And opals of spun foam.

Then walk her down to Frisco,
Lay her for Hong-Kong;
Reeling down the water-front
Seven hundred strong.
Deep they lie in every sea,
Land's End to the Horn —
For every sailorman that dies
A sailorman is born.

Tall, languid palms that glimmer,
Blossoms beyond belief,
Sea-gods at play in shouting spray
On sun-splashed coral reef.

O falling star at twilight,
O questing sail unfurled,
Through unknown seas I follow these
Down-hill across the world.

Then walk her down to Sydney,
Through to Singapore;
Dutch Marie and Ysobel
Waitin' on the shore.
Deep they lie in every sea,
Land's End to the Horn —
For every sailorman that dies
A sailorman is born.