In his ripe threescore and ten.
Quaint the port of Bonney Castle,
With its wharves that fringed the bay,
Gabled roofs and beaten sashes,
Houses clad with age's gray.
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And the tower of the belfry,
With its sharp bold Gothic lines,
Carried back the thoughtful traveller
To the good old feudal times.
Old Sir James laid down his atlas,
Taking up his last voyage's log,
Lit his lamp and closed the shutters,
Bolting out the night and fog.
Reading, dozing, till unconscious,
Once again he sailed the sea;
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