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SOUTHWARD BOUND.
Then westward toward the setting sun
- Along the Barrier’s edge.
As a last resource, to land our force
- On a place from which we could sledge.
In a solitary hut on a lonely isle
- Beneath a smoke capped height,
Hemmed in by the ice that grips us awhile
- We wait in the long dark night.
When the sun returns from his tropical home,
- And smiles on these desolate quarters,
May the ice hold fast till sledging is past,
- Then ‘What Ho'! for our wives and daughters.
LAPSUS LINGUÆ.
