by Colin Grossmith, 3A, Gaytonian 1959
Oh! For the oily, salty harbours of the south;
Where fishing boats lie beached in silt of river mouth;
Where rusty little coasters call from quay to quay,
And midtimes plough through oily, foamy sea.
The sturdy tugboats midstream up the river ply;
And gulls with outstretched wings from mast to capstan fly;
And portly steamships far from alien countries cruise,
To meet the docks, and there, their important cargoes lose.
A muddy, grimy dredger lies just afloat upon the tide,
And sounds her siren at a freighter passing at a glide;
A North Atlantic mailboat, with a thousand lamps aboard,
Salutes the misty harbour on her way in from abroad.
The harbour wall is broad with quays that powerfully outstretch,
Holding smart Cunarder and the bustling little ketch;
The East and West meet here at one, with trade their common aim,
And nation speaks to nation, and their voices are the same.