THE MODERN MARINER

By Bert Leston Taylor

A dry sheet and a lazy sea,

And a wind so far from fast

It barely floats the owner's flag

That flutters at the mast —

That flutters at the mast, my boys;

So while the sky is free

Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance

And venture out to sea.

The aneroid has dropped a tenth!

Back, back across the bar

To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,

And a big fat black cigar —

A big fat black cigar, my boys;

While, on an even keel,

The Swedish chef out-chefs himself

In getting up a meal.

Give me a soft and gentle wind,

A fleckless azure sky;

I care not for your “snoring breeze”

And dinners heaving high —

And dinners heaving high, my boys,

Make no great hit with me;

So when the breeze begins to snore

We'll not put out to sea.

There's laughter in yon beach hotel,

And summer girls a crowd;

And hark the music, mariners,

The band is piping loud!

The band is piping loud, my boys,

Bright eyes are flashing free.

Come, fly the owner's-absent flag

And join the revelry.