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From bounding billows firſt in motion,
where the diſtant whirlwinds riſe,
To the tempeſt-troubled ocean,
when the ſeas contend with ſkies.
Hark! the boatſwain hoarſely bawling,
by top-ſail ſheets and haulyards ſtand,
Down top-gallants, quick be hauling,
down your ſtay-ſails, hand boys, hand.
Now it freſhens, ſet the braces,
the lee top-ſail ſheets let go;
Luff, boys, luff, don’t make wry faces,
up your top-ſails nimbly clew.
Now all you on down-beds ſporting,
fondly lock’d ’twixt beauty’s arms,
Fresh enjoyment, wanting courting,
ſafe from all but love’s alarms.
Around us roars the tempeſt louder;
think what fears our minds enthral:
Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
now again the boatſwain’s call.
The topſail-yards point to the wind, boys,
ſee all clear to reef each courſe;
Let the ſore-ſheet go, don’t mind, boys,
tho’ the weather ſhould be worſe;
Fore and aft the ſpritſail-yard get,
reef the mizzen, ſee all clear;
Hands up, each preventure brace ſet,
man the fore-yard ; cheer, lads, cheer.
