All in the gorgeous dawn of day From grey old Plymouth Sound Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray To sail the world around: _Cloud i' the Sun_ was her white-scrolled name,-- There was never a lovelier lass For sailing in state after pieces of eight With her bombards all of brass. _Chorus:_ Culverins, robinets, iron may-be; But her bombards all of brass! Now, they that go down to the sea in ships, Though piracy be their trade, For all that they pray not much with their lips They know where the storms are made: With the stars above and the sharks below, They need not parson or clerk; But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except--sometimes--in the dark! _Chorus:_ Now let Kit Marlowe mark! Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except--sometimes--in the dark! All we adventured for, who shall say, Nor yet what our port might be?-- A magical city of old Cathay, Or a castle of Muscovy, With our atheist bo'sun, Bill, Black Bill, Under the swinging Bear, Whistling at night for a seaman to light His little poop-lanthorns there. _Chorus:_ On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light His little lost lanthorns there. But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept, We chanced on a strange new land Where a valley of tall white lilies slept With a forest on either hand; A valley of white in a purple wood And, behind it, faint and far, Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height, Floated the sunset-star. _Chorus:_ Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height, Venus, the sunset-star. 'Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat, Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air, With the great white lilies that reached to his throat Like a stained-glass bo'sun there, And our little ship's chaplain, puffing and red, A-starn as we onward stole, With the disk of a lily behind his head Like a cherubin's aureole. _Chorus:_ He was round and red and behind his head He'd a cherubin's aureole. "Hyrcania, land of honey and bees, We have found thee at last," he said, "Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees," (O, the lily behind his head!) "The honey-comb swells in the purple wood! 'Tis the swette which the heavens distil, Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"