Ten leagues behind, we cursed the wind
That would not blow by day,
Three nights we tried to trail her blind
And thrice she crept away;
O the fog blew thin and the breeze drew in
And the leagues lay green and gone,
By our keel that quivered we vowed to win
Ere the birth of the dismal dawn.
The wind’s awake, the rollers break,
Split by the scurrying prow,