STORM CALL

The raging gale is bringing me a wild, wild call,
And my restless heart is surging with each fresh, wet squall;
Each shrieking gust is crying of an old, old quest,
I will take the ship and sail her to the beck’ning West.

I will face the lashing torment of the salt, salt spray,
I will drive her through the tempest in the old, mad way,
With her sails in flapping tatters on the ice caked spars
While her straining hull is groaning with the great seas jars.

With her wheel akicking madly, and her foretop gone,
With her crew in silent mutiny, I’ll drive her on,
With her lee rail shipping water by the green, green ton,
I will sail her to the Devil, or the setting sun.

The raging gale is bringing me a wild, wild call,
And home and friends are nothing, I can leave it all;
For I was born a seeker of the old, old lure,
And a roving heart is something Death alone can cure.

By Donald Ian McGregor
1908 1985

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