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Rudyard Kipling - The Bell Buoy
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They christened my brother of old—
     And a saintly name he bears—
They gave him his place to hold
  At the head of the belfry-stairs,
  Where the minister-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
  Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime,
  O`er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
  To the bidding of checked Desire;
  Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
  Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown—
  When the greasy wind-rack lowers—
Apart and at peace and alone,
  He counts the changeless hours.
  He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
  Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray
  There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
  And moored me over the shoal.
I rock, I reel, and I roll—
My four great hammers ply—
 Could I speak or be still at the Church`s will?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,
  The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
  The spent deep feigns her rest:
  But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell—I cry!
  Could I wait in sloth on the Church`s oath?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night
  I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
  And I call to the drowsy crew;
  And the mud boils foul and blue
As the blind bow backs away.
  Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,
  The bursting spray-heads freeze,
I gather on crown and rim 
  The grey, grained ice of the seas,
  Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
  Would I barter my place for the Church`s grace?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow, 
  Or the black of the inky sleet,   
The lanterns gather and grow,
  And I look for the homeward fleet.
  Rattle of block and sheet—
"Ready about-stand by!"
  Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing
  In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
  On the horns of death I ride.
  A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
  Fretted and bound I bide
        Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! `Ware shoal!) Not I!
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