THE OLD SKIPPER.

I laud no fabled glory Of potentate or kings, No beatific story Of Love’s meanderings. My pennon not for conquest That gloats above the slain, But let me hoist the halyards Above the wind and rain For him, the sun-burned sailor— The skipper, with an eye Long searching to the windward— If be it wet or dry, The hurricane, hell-haunted, And sundogs in the sky, The jib and topmast splintered, The breakers mountain high. God help him keep the channel, If nor-nor-east or snow, Or be the night red-footed, And “kiss the bride,” or no. God bless the weathered sailor— The “outside” fisherman— Who swears a little when he must, And whistles when he can.