A bluish haze in the far astern
And galloping seas between,
The last-long look at one’s native land,
Where boyhood days we’ve seen.
For our bows are dipped in smothering spray,
Our course to the setting sun.
We’re bound for the front, with foot and horse,
And a-clanking steel and gun.

The transport reels in the battering seas,
All her decks with troops asprawl,
A foamy wake from her churning screw,
Where the billows rise and fall;
The wind in the shroud...