We seldom speak about you,
Nor curse you, God forbid;
We know you did the best you could,
At least, I think you did.

You always were a strange one.
Those poems that you wrote,
Mum sewed them in an oilskin cloth
And slipped them in your coat.

The sea is as you left it,
The tide is on the turn;
Faint lights along the harbour hills
Lie glinting hard astern.

The moon is still our mistress,
She waxes and she wanes,
While those you left to face the dawn
Are dancing in our chains.