Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/432

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THE TOPSAILS SHIVER IN THE WIND.
By the souls of our fathers, who sleep in their cairns;
By their blood which is in us, our wives, and our bairns;
   By all that cheer us,
   The proud foe shall fear us,
   As the offspring of heroes!
      We'll on! then, on!

Then forth with your sword, and away with your sheath,
Prepare for the harvest of conquest or death!
   Loud bid your pibrochs roar,
   Flourish each bright claymore,
   Shout for MacCallain More!
      On! on! on!

The Topsails Shiver in the Wind.
The topsails shiver in the wind,
 The ship is cast to sea;
But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
 Are, Mary, moored with thee;
For though thy sailor's bound afar,
Still love shall be his leading star.

Should laudmen flatter when we're sailed,
 Oh! doubt their artful tales;
No gallant sailor ever failed,
 If love breathed constant gales:
Thou art the compass of my soul,
Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in every port we meet,
 More fell than rocks or waves;
But such as grace the British fleet,
 Are lovers, and not slaves:
No foes our courage shall subdue.
Although we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares; but if you're kind,
 We'll scorn the dashing main,
The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
 The power of France and Spain:
Now England's glory rests with you,
Our sails are full—sweet girls, adieu!

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