o'er the blue billows of wave,
I leave the lovely land of my mistress
unwilling, sold thrall by the cold storm
rage, a ship tossed, wretched,
grasping foam-thrashed splinters
in the deep. Lost, my loins' patrimoan,
that thousand-three man galleon glory,
gone, bitter billows taste of brave fade full,
and fold into the foreign mold's skin,
where frenzy's force brain-fog sunk
into the beastly howls of brown-whisker'd face,
I quiver, now gliding grace majestic
in the glass-green fold of wet, awaiting
that woman's fair and free face, if
these barks bounce echo on the banks
of her amber-beaming grain-laiden shores.
If you studied, you would know the allusions herein.
