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21
IN THE NIGHT
Chalk cliffs a thousand feet in height,
Grey ghosts melting into the night.
And on their summit, to and fro,
Doomed on his weary beat to go,
Every night from ten till two,
A Coastguard paces to and fro.
If the wind blows high, if the wind blows low,
Through the pelting rain, through the driving snow,
To and fro, to and fro.
On the look-out lest a wrecker's light
Over the lower downs should glide,
Swung from a horse, whose motions might
Show like a boat on the heaving tide,
Luring rich ships, by its baleful glare,
