And here is C. Fox Smith's poem, Ships That Pass. I'm sure it too has evolved over the years. One thing, there is a verse I left out back when I learned it. The verse talks of the war (WWI). I left it out for a good reason (wish I could remember what it was) but now I would like to put it back in. Unfortunately I cannot find the poem anywhere. If you can would you please provide me with the missing verse?

SHIPS THAT PASS

By C. Fox Smith

There are ships that pass in the night time,
Some poet has told us how,
But a ship that passed in the day time
Is the one I'm thinking of now
Where the seas roll green from the Arctic,
And the wind cuts keen from the pole.
'Tween Rockall Bank and the Shetlands,
Up north on the long patrol.

We sighted her one day early,
The forenoon watch had begun,
There was mist, like wool, on the water,
And a glimpse of a cold pale sun.
And she came through that dim gray weather,
A thing of wonder and gleam,
From the port of the past on a bowline,
Close hauled on a wind of dream.

The rust of years was upon her,
She'd weathered many a gale.
The flag of some Spanish republic,
Went up to her peak at our hail
But I knew her, how could I help but know,
The ship that I passed my time in,
No matter how long ago.

I'd have climbed to royals blindfold,
I'd have known her spars in a crowd.
Aloft and alow, I knew her,
Brace and halyard and shroud.
From the scroll work under her stern ports,
To the paint on her figure head.
And the call "All Hands!" from her main deck,
Would have tumbled me up from the dead.

She was youth and its sorrow that passes,
Its light and laughter and joy,
The south and its small white cities,
And the carefree heart of a boy,
The farewell flash of the Fastnet,
The light you the whole way home,
The hoot of a tug at parting,
And the song of the homeward bound.

She was sun and flying fish weather,
Night and a fiddler's tune,
Palms and the warm maize yellow,
Of a low west Indian moon.
Storm in the high south latitudes,
The boom of a trade filled sail,
The anchor watch at midnight,
And the old south Spainer's tales.

Was it the lap of a wave I heard?
Or maybe the chill wind's cry?
Or a snatch of a deep sea shanty,
I knew in the years gone by.
Was it the whine of the gear in the sheaves?
Or maybe a seagull's call?
Or the ghost of my shipmate's voices,
As they tallied on to the fall.

I went through her papers duly,
And no one, I hope, could see,
A freight of the years departed,
Was the cargo she bore for me.
And I spoke with her Spanish captain,
As we searched her for contraband.
And I longed for one grip of her wheel spokes,
Like the grip of a friend's right hand.

Then I watched as her helm went over,
And her sails were sheeted home,
And under her moving forefoot,
The bubbles broke into foam,
Till she faded from sight in the grayness,
A thing of wonder and gleam,
From the port of the past on a bowline,
Close hauled o a wind of dream