While The Billy BoilsSearchDown here where the ships loom large inThe gloom when the sea-storms veer,Down here on the south-west marginOf the western hemisphere,Where the might of a world-wide oceanRound the youngest land rolls free—Storm-bound from the world’s commotion,Lie the Ports of the Open Sea.
By the bluff where the grey sand reachesTo the kerb of the spray-swept street,By the sweep of the black sand beachesFrom the main-road travellers’ feet,By the heights like a work Titanic,Begun ere the gods’ work ceased,By a bluff-lined coast volcanicLie the Ports of the wild South-east.
By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges,By the scarped and terraced hills—Far away from the swift life-changes,From the wear of the strife that kills—Where the land in the Spring seems youngerThan a land of the Earth might be—Oh! the hearts of the rovers hungerFor the Ports of the Open Sea.
But the captains watch and hearkenFor a sign of the South Sea wrath—Let the face of the South-east darken,And they turn to the ocean path.Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger,Whatever the cargo be;When the South-east lifts a fingerBy the Ports of the Open Sea.
South by the bleak Bluff faring,North where the Three Kings wait,South-east the tempest daring—Flight through the storm-tossed strait;Yonder a white-winged roamerStruck where the rollers roar—Where the great green froth-flaked comberBreaks down on a black-ribbed shore.
For the South-east lands are dread landsTo the sailor in the shrouds,Where the low clouds loom like headlands,And the black bluffs blur like clouds.When the breakers rage to windwardAnd the lights are masked a-lee,And the sunken rocks run inwardTo a Port of the Open Sea.
But oh! for the South-east weather—The sweep of the three-days’ gale—When, far through the flax and heather,The spindrift drives like hail.Glory to man’s creationsThat drive where the gale grows gruff,When the homes of the sea-coast stationsFlash white from the dark’ning bluff!
When the swell of the South-east rousesThe wrath of the Maori sprite,And the brown folk flee their housesAnd crouch in the flax by night,And wait as they long have waited—In fear as the brown folk be—The wave of destruction fatedFor the Ports of the Open Sea.. . . . . . . . . .Grey cloud to the mountain bases,Wild boughs that rush and sweep;On the rounded hills the tussocksLike flocks of flying sheep;A lonely storm-bird soaringO’er tussock, fern and tree;And the boulder beaches roaringThe Hymn of the Open Sea.