A MORE ANCIENT MARINER 171 



There's not a soul in the garden world 



But wishes the day were shorter, 

 When Mariner B. puts out to sea 



With the wind in the proper quarter. 



Or, so they say ! But I have my doubts ; 



For the flowers are only human, 

 And the valour and gold of a vagrant bold 



Were always dear to woman. 



He dares to boast, along the coast, 

 The beauty of Highland Heather, 



How he and she, with night on the sea, 

 Lay out on the hills together. 



He pilfers from every port of the wind, 



From April to golden autumn ; 

 But the thieving ways of his mortal days 



Are those his mother taught him. 



His morals are mixed, but his will is fixed ; 



He prospers after his kind, 

 And follows an instinct, compass-sure, 



The philosophers call blind. 



And that is why, when he comes to die, 



He'll have an easier sentence 

 Than someone I know who thinks just so, 



And then leaves room for repentance. 



He never could box the compass round ; 



He doesn't know port from starboard ; 

 But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, 



Where the choicest goods are harboured. 



