A slant came from the south; the singers stood Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood. The upper topsail rose like a balloon. "So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon," Said one to other, as the ship lay over, Making her course again--again a rover. Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell. Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!" The combless seas were lumping into swell; The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet. More sail was made; the watch on deck was set To cleaning up the ruin broken bare Below, aloft, about her, everywhere. The Dauber, scrubbing out the round-house, found Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear, Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned During the agony of the Cape Horn year. He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear-- Fronted the worst and looked it in the face; He had got manhood at the testing-place. Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below, Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched, Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe. Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched; They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched. "Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, "can you knit? I've made a Barney's bull of this last bit." Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took Some marline from his pocket. "Here," he said, "You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look! Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread. I've known an engineer would give his head To know square sennit." As the Bose began, The Dauber felt promoted into man. It was his warrant that he had not failed-- That the most hard part in his difficult climb Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: Safe footing showed above the slippery slime. He had emerged out of the iron time, And knew that he could compass his life's scheme; He had the power sufficient to his dream. Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue. The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded; She made a thundering as she weltered through. The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded. More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan. She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; Those in the round-house watched her as they ate Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread. "Good old!" they cried. "She's off; she's gathering gait!" Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate. "Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth! Hurray! For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay!" "She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried. "We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more, Lying at double-moorings where they ride Off of the market, half a mile from shore, And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, And girls in black mantillas fit to make a Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca."