Away by the reefs of the Chilean Coast
where the Southern Cross hangs low,
and the sailor-folk of ev'ry land
pass a-faring to and fro.

At even, when the cool sea-breeze
relieves the tropic day,
the lights of Valparaiso Town
flash beckoning 'cross the Bay.

At twilight hour, when tales are told,
the souls of men arise,
that once o'er those wide waters roamed,
and flock before our eyes.

Like far-off sails, but dimly seen
through haze of distant rain,
so flit their spirits through our speech,
our tales of mirth and pain.

Ere yet their names are faded quite,
forgot their phantom ships,
we hail them o'er the gloom to live
a moment on our lips.