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| THERE’S a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, | |
| And the ricks stand grey to the sun, | |
| Singing: “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, | |
| “And your English summer’s done.” | |
| You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, | 5 |
| And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; | |
| You have heard the song—how long? how long? | |
| Pull out on the trail again! | |
| Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, | |
| We’ve seen the seasons through, | 10 |
| And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new! | |
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| It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun | |
| Or South to the blind Horn’s hate; | |
| Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, | 15 |
| Or West to the Golden Gate— | |
| Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, | |
| And the wildest tales are true, | |
| And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | 20 |
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| The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old, | |
| And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; | |
| And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll | |
| Of a black Bilbao tramp, | |
| With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, | 25 |
| And a drunken Dago crew, | |
| And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail | |
| From Cadiz south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | |
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| There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, | |
| Or the way of a man with a maid; | 30 |
| But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea | |
| In the heel of the North-East Trade. | |
| Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, | |
| And the drum of the racing screw, | |
| As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | 35 |
| As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new? | |
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| See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, | |
| And the fenders grind and heave, | |
| And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, | |
| And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; | 40 |
| It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass, | |
| It’s “Hawsers warp her through!” | |
| And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | |
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| O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, | 45 |
| And the sirens hoot their dread, | |
| When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep | |
| To the sob of the questing lead! | |
| It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, | |
| With the Gunfleet Sands in view, | 50 |
| Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | |
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| O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light | |
| That holds the hot sky tame, | |
| And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors | 55 |
| Where the scared whale flukes in flame! | |
| Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass, | |
| And her ropes are taut with the dew, | |
| For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | 60 |
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| Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, | |
| And the shouting seas drive by, | |
| And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, | |
| And the Southern Cross rides high! | |
| Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, | 65 |
| That blaze in the velvet blue. | |
| They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| They’re God’s own guide on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. | |
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| Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start— | |
| We’re steaming all too slow, | 70 |
| And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle | |
| Where the trumpet-orchids blow! | |
| You have heard the call of the off-shore wind | |
| And the voice of the deep-sea rain; | |
| You have heard the song. How long—how long? | 75 |
| Pull out on the trail again! | |
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| The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, | |
| And The Deuce knows what we may do— | |
| But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, | |
| We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new! | 80 |
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