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Nantucket's Last Whaleship When, in duck pants and shirt of check, Elate, I paced the lighter's deck, A new-fledged proud young sailor. How little I, so salt and bold, Dreamed that my eyes would e'er behold The last Nantucket whaler. Had one, with gift of second sight, Made prophecy (as some one might) That whaling soon would fail, or Foretold that, within thirty years, (The truth, as plainly now appears,) One lonely little whaler, I should, while headed "rounded Cape Horn", Have ridiculed and laughed to scorn the idle, croaking sailor! He ne'er could have persuaded me That I should ever live to see The last Nantucket whaler. Yet "gone's our occupation", now; No longer do our proud ships plough The ocean under sail, or Bronzed-faced young seamen walk our streets, Or sit and tell tales of their feats Performed while in a whaler. No more we hear of "on Japan", "Off Patagonia" or "Tristan", Where blows th' Antarctic gale, or "Adown the Line", or "Archer Ground"; These have an unfamiliar sound, Since not a single whaler Remains, of all the long, proud roll, That once, almost from pole to pole, Defied the howling gale, or Threw canvas to the gentle breeze, And gathered wealth from tropic seas— —We've sold our last, last whaler!
