Rudyard Kipling

Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.
It took a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
But, spite all modern notions, I�ve found her first and best �
The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

Fair held the breeze behind us � �twas warm with lover�s prayers,
We�d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.
They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,
And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook,
Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took
With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed,
And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest.

We asked no social questions � we pumped no hidden shame �
We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:
We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.
We weren�t exactly Yussufs, but � Zuleika didn�t tell.

No moral doubts assailed us, so when the port we neared,
The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.
�Twas fiddle in the foc�s�le � �twas garlands on the mast,
For every one was married, and I went at shore at last.

I left �em all in couples a-kissing on the decks.
I left the lovers loving and parents signing cheques.
In endless English comfort, by county-folk caressed,
I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! . . .

That route is barred to steamers: you�ll never lift again
Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.
They�re just beyond your skyline, howe�er so far you cruise,
In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.

Swing round your aching searchlight � �twill show no haven�s peace.
Ay, blow your shrieking sirens at the deaf, grey-bearded seas!
Boom our the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep�s unrest �
And you aren�t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest.

But when you�re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,
At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,
Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,
You�ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

You�ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;
You�ll hear the long-drawn thunder �neath her leaping figure-head;
While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine
Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine!

Hull down � hull down and under � she dwindles to a speck,
With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.
All�s well � all�s well aboard her � she�s left you far behind,
With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

Her crews are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?
You�re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming�s sake?
Well, tinker up your engines � you know your business best �
She�s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!