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THE CAPTIVE SHIPS AT MANILA
by Paul, Dorothy

Our keels are furred with tropic weed that clogs the crawling tides
And scarred with crust of salt and rust that gnaws our idle sides;
And little junks they come and go, and ships they sail at dawn;
And all the outbound winds that blow they call us to be gone,
As yearning to the lifting seas our gaunt flotilla rides,
Drifting aimless to and fro,
Sport of every wind a-blow,
Swinging to the ebb and flow
Of lazy tropic tides.
And once we knew the clean seaways to sail them pridefully;
And once we met the clean sea winds and gave them greeting free;
And honest craft, they spoke us fair, who'd scorn to speak us now;
And little craft, they'd not beware to cross a German bow
When yet the flag of Germany had honor on the sea.
And now, of all that seaward fare,
What ship of any port is there
But would dip her flag to a black corsair
Ere she'd signal such as we!
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Yet we are ribbed with Norseland steel and fleshed with Viking pine,
That's fashioned of the soil which bred the hosts of Charlemagne;
And clad we are with rusting pride of stays and links and plates
That lay within the mountain side where Barbarossa waits—
The mighty Frederick thralled in sleep, held by the ancient sign,
While yet the ravens circle wide
Above that guarded mountain side,
Full fed with carrion from the tide
Of swinish, red rapine!
Oh, we have known the German men when German men were true,
And we have borne the German flag when honor was her due;
But sick we are of honest scorn from honest merchant-men—
The winds they call us to be gone down to the seas again—
Down to the seas where waves lift white and gulls they sheer in the blue,
Shriven clean of our blood-bought scorn
By a foeman's flag—ay, proudly borne!
Cleaving out in the good red dawn—
Out again to the blue!
Dorothy Paul.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg