THE WIND blows wild on Bos’n Hill,
Far off is heard the ocean’s rote;
Low overhead the gulls scream shrill,
And homeward scuds each little boat.

Then the dead Bos’n wakes in glee
To hear the storm-king’s song;
And from the top of mast-pine tree
He blows his whistle loud and long.

The village sailors hear the call,
Lips pale and eyes grow dim;
Well know they, though he pipes them all,
He means but one shall answer him.

He pipes the dead up from their graves,
Whose bones the tansy hides;
He pipes the dead beneath the waves,
They hear and cleave the rising tides.

But sailors know when next they sail
Beyond the Hilltop’s view,
There ’s one amongst them shall not fail
To join the Bos’n’s Crew.