YEARS ahead, years ahead,
Who shall honour our sailor-dead?
For the wild North Sea, the bleak North Sea,
Threshes and seethes so endlessly.
Gathering foam and changing crest
Heave and hurry, and know no rest
How can they mark our sailor-dead
In the years ahead?
Years ahead, years ahead,
The sea shall honour our sailor-dead!
No mound of mouldering earth shall show
The fighting place of the men below,
But a swirl of seas that gather and spill;
And the wind's wild chanty whistling shrill
Shall cry " Consider my sailor-dead!"
In the years ahead.
Guy N. Pocock.
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