A YACHTING SONG.
KEENis the clear, free air,Sharp with a salty tang,Far o’er the waters blown—Blown on the winds that fly.Up with the topsail, there!Gray have the shore-lines grown,Dim where the mountains sprangBold, as we turned toward Skye.Never a flaw in the breeze,A fair and favoring gale,Never a guy-rope wrong,Never a sheet awry!Over the summer seas,Gay as a lover’s song,Merrily on we sailUp to the Straits of Skye.Let them prate of their joy,Footing firm on the earth;Oh, they may prate who will,Ours is the joy, say I!Bliss of the buoyant boy,Tremble and throb and thrill—Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,Loud on the Strand of Skye!
KEENis the clear, free air,Sharp with a salty tang,Far o’er the waters blown—Blown on the winds that fly.Up with the topsail, there!Gray have the shore-lines grown,Dim where the mountains sprangBold, as we turned toward Skye.Never a flaw in the breeze,A fair and favoring gale,Never a guy-rope wrong,Never a sheet awry!Over the summer seas,Gay as a lover’s song,Merrily on we sailUp to the Straits of Skye.Let them prate of their joy,Footing firm on the earth;Oh, they may prate who will,Ours is the joy, say I!Bliss of the buoyant boy,Tremble and throb and thrill—Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,Loud on the Strand of Skye!
KEENis the clear, free air,Sharp with a salty tang,Far o’er the waters blown—Blown on the winds that fly.Up with the topsail, there!Gray have the shore-lines grown,Dim where the mountains sprangBold, as we turned toward Skye.
KEENis the clear, free air,
Sharp with a salty tang,
Far o’er the waters blown—
Blown on the winds that fly.
Up with the topsail, there!
Gray have the shore-lines grown,
Dim where the mountains sprang
Bold, as we turned toward Skye.
Never a flaw in the breeze,A fair and favoring gale,Never a guy-rope wrong,Never a sheet awry!Over the summer seas,Gay as a lover’s song,Merrily on we sailUp to the Straits of Skye.
Never a flaw in the breeze,
A fair and favoring gale,
Never a guy-rope wrong,
Never a sheet awry!
Over the summer seas,
Gay as a lover’s song,
Merrily on we sail
Up to the Straits of Skye.
Let them prate of their joy,Footing firm on the earth;Oh, they may prate who will,Ours is the joy, say I!Bliss of the buoyant boy,Tremble and throb and thrill—Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,Loud on the Strand of Skye!
Let them prate of their joy,
Footing firm on the earth;
Oh, they may prate who will,
Ours is the joy, say I!
Bliss of the buoyant boy,
Tremble and throb and thrill—
Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,
Loud on the Strand of Skye!
Clinton Scollard.
Clinton Scollard.
Clinton Scollard.