As I went down through Portsmouth Town, with my bundle in my hand,
I met a chap in a pigtail rig, just newly come to land;
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A man there was, called — what you will; he came of an ancient breed:
Sprung from the loins of the grey North, his sires were
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Over the upland fields, where free and strong The fresh hill-breezes swept,
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On a hill-top brown it stands:
One side, open tablelands
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With loud talking and laughter, And a long, careless stride,
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Start Point and Beachy Head Tell their tale of quick and dead.
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Why — can anybody say? —
Has upon my natal day
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I wandered in a garden-square,
By pathways walled with straight-clipt yew,
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Girded by wastes of sounding foam, Slumbers unseen the fruitful isle;
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This is the yarn that M'Larty told by the brazier fire,
Where over the mud-filled trenches the star-shells blaze and expire —
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"Oh, a sailor's life's a dog's life, an' that's the truth," says Bill,
"A sailor's life's a dog's life, look at it 'ow you will;
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The frost is on the pane and the rime's on the ground
And pitch-dark the morn,
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Yestreen I walked where wind and tree Called all the lost years back to me,
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"I ain't no glutton for work," said Bill, "though I done my whack in my day,
An' I'd never say 'No' to a boss's job if such was to c
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It induces a sensation
Of irritation
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O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying
Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain;
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It is the close of day:
Over the hill and town
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When the road it is rough and the sun it is strong,
And the miles of the country seem long and more long,
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It was about the midnight hour, I heard the wind go by:
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When the last of my hunts is over and done, And I go to my rest with the sinking sun,
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Beneath the golden eagle's shade
Gleam restless eyes of steely grey,
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Now hark, all good hunters, I'll sing you the praise
Of a brave hound and goodly, that's worth
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"I come ashore off a Cardiff tramp — the worst as ever I see:
She was all the things you could name," said Bill, "as a ship's
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In a dear land, in a dim land,
By well-remembered streams,
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She sent her five fighting ships once on a day To meet the bold Spaniard in battle array:
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Women wear trousers
To trail round the shops;
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I don't know who Saint Mawes was, but he surely can't have been
A stiff old stone gazebo on a carved cathedral screen,
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A ship swinging As the tide swings, up and down,
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Why did I dream last night, I wonder, about the ship Ledore
I made a passage in from China — was it 'eighty-three or four &mda
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A gray-roof'd church on a hill, set in the sound of the waves,
Hearing them all day long on the shingle murmuring,
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