Bridge of Highs
Oh Satchell! My Satchell! our fearful trip is done,
The streak has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port (St John’s Finest) is near, the cheers I hear, the Poulets all exulting,
While wings flap the steady chop, the vessel grim and daring;
But O poke! poke! poke!
O the ripping boys of red,
Where on the floor LB lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Thanks to BC and CG. Big footsteps are hard to follow.