A leap year
Is never a good sheep year.
The mountain sheep are sweeter.
But the valley sheep are fatter.
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.
SHIPS
(See also Navigation, Navy, Shipwreck)
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
| author = Byron
| work = The Corsair.
| place = Canto III. St. 15.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 703
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>For why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?
The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.
A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill;
Hark! don't ye hear it roar now?
Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore, now.
For she is such a smart little craft,
Such a neat little, sweet little craft—
Such a bright little,
Tight little,
Slight little,
Light little,
Trim little, slim little craft!
Ships that sailed for sunny isles,
But never came to shore.
Morn on the waters, and purple and bright
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light.
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on.
SHIPS
chance of being drowned.
Lord, Thou hast made this world below the
shadow of a dream,
An', taught by time, I talc' it so—exceptin' always steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see thy
Hand, O God Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'rod.
Kipling—McAndrew's Hymn.
The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor
'eeds—
The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband an' 'e gives 'er all she needs;
But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun',
They're just the same as you an' me, a'-plyin' up an' down.
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail, the trail that is always new.
Build me straight, O worthy Master!
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, great or small,
And help to build the wooden wall!
harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.
And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses.
She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant Ship: along her watery way,
Homeward she drives before the favouring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.