Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.
It took a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
But, spite all modern notions, I've found her first and best -- The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.
We asked no social questions -- we pumped no hidden shame -- We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:
We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.
We weren't exactly Yussufs, but -- Zuleika didn't tell.
That route is barred to steamers: you'll never lift again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.
They're just beyond your skyline, howe'er so far you cruise,
In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.
You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;
You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head;
While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine
Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine!
Hull down -- hull down and under -- she dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.
All's well -- all's well aboard her -- she's left you far behind,
With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.