There are a number of poems (or parts of poems) in the logs of the ship Harbinger, and we thought it might be a good idea to print them here. The final one, as you will observe, is incomplete: we hope that some of you will be minded to complete it (or indeed write a completely new one on the same or a similar theme).
1842 How hard is a poor sailors lot
He is fore ever gorn from home
Thru varios climes boath cold and hot
He is ever domed to rome
1845 Our bark wile on the ocean bound
Conveys me far from the
And all that ever dear to me
Alas I have left behind
1847 The promises you have mad to others
Per haps you will deny
But ther is a day acoming
The judg he will not lie.
And when you pass deaths cold icy arms
I m sure tis there you will see
The vows to other you have mad
But never mad to me
The book of life it will be brought
The judg he will unfold
Perhaps nascent or latent poets will want to complete this final stanza, which may or may not be a concluding stanza to the other two.