By G⸺ there’ll be no Calm to Day, I doubt;
Then answers one, who’s on the Main-Yard Arm,
Z⸺ds, Lads, as yet we have receiv’d no Harm.
But next another cries, G⸺ d⸺ my Soul,
How cursedly the rotten Bitch do’s rowl!
Whilst here do’s split a Mast, there rent a Sail,
Another swears, by Heav’n the Ship do’s fail:
Some cry, G⸺ rot us, we shall all be drown’d,
The very Storm do’s rage the Compass round;
For steer which Way we will, the Wind do’s blow