Ye steamers on the River Thames,
Though great your fame -- and loved your names--
And so wonderful your speed;
Take down your brooms, and own at last,
With deep hoarse groans, and flags half-mast,
That you are outdone at last.
Don't you see the dashing foam,
The spray of one returning home,
So long before the others ?
How swiftly she the water walks,
How crowded are the Chatham docks !
To welcome the "Brothers,"
Ye little craft, to your heels take,
Before you founder in her wake --
She rapidly is nearing !
See how the waters do divide,
And stand like mountains by her side,
For life be disappearing !
Her name is quite appropriate,
As all who've seen her cabins, state,
And her home-like deck, must know;
But yet, I think, from her quick trips
The way which o'er the waves she skips,
Her name should be -- Land, Ho !