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 | A thousand more verses |  |
What craft looms upon the horizon, with chilling and ominous breath?
It sailed from white deserts of North Land—it carries a cargo of death.
It needs not of chart or of compass: it wrecks not of grief or of pain;
It spares not the dead or the living—it counts not the lists of its slain.
O watchman be keen to your duty! These moments are treasures untold!
For time at a stress has a value not reckoned in silver or gold.
O man you have thrown a defiance at all that destruction can do,
Your brothers and sisters are praying the boasts of your prowess be true!
It sailed from white deserts of North Land—it carries a cargo of death.
It needs not of chart or of compass: it wrecks not of grief or of pain;
It spares not the dead or the living—it counts not the lists of its slain.
O watchman be keen to your duty! These moments are treasures untold!
For time at a stress has a value not reckoned in silver or gold.
O man you have thrown a defiance at all that destruction can do,
Your brothers and sisters are praying the boasts of your prowess be true!
| A thousand more verses | |