The Return of the Mayflower I (Down the sparkling Channel)

Down the sparkling Channel, Out of Plymouth Sound, What gallant little craft is this Making outward bound?

Who crowd along her taffrail To look their last on home, While the seas beneath her forefoot Are trampled into foam,

And in the morning sunlight Her last sail is unfurled? She's the Mayflower out from Plymouth, Bound for the New World.

What cargo does she carry, And what port will she make? She has a hundred souls on board Would die for conscience' sake.

And she will come to anchor On a far Western beach, By God's grace, past the farthest bounds That tyranny can reach.

No Argo ever carried, No pilgrim ever planned, A more sublime adventure Than this exalted band.

They bear the flower of England, To plant it over sea— The holy seed of Runnymede That men call Liberty.

And lo, that magic blossom Shall flourish and increase, To glad the souls of all mankind, And fill the world with peace.

Warm are the Devon moorlands In the September sun, And over the dim unknown sea-rim The Mayflower has gone.