And ye hoist the mainsail brown,
As over the deep-sea roll
The lurker follows the shoal;
To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,
When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,--
It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs
yelped in the Race:
The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling
whisht and low,
And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves
blow,
And the moor-grass sways to and fro,
Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,
And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.
Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness
wild and drear,--
How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?


THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON

_The live man victorious_
_Rode spurring from the fight;_
_In a glad voice and glorious_
_He sang of his delight,_
_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_