He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck,
He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers,
But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck:
He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers--
The kind of job a common chap would shirk--
But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave,
And he thinks it's all included in his work.

He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker,
And he's good at every one of 'em the same:
And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker,
And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name.
He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester",
He's as plucky as they make, or ever can;
He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head,
And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man.

* * * * *

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

When the hot summer daylight is dyin',
And the mist through the valley has rolled,
And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard
Are purple with trimmings of gold,--
Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky,
The crickets chirp out from each nook,
And the frogs with their voices so husky
Jine in from the marsh and the brook.