Now passing Ushant from the Bay of Biscay,
‘Don’t I,’ said Teague, ‘smell Ireland & Whiskey?’
‘Why, Teague,’ said John, ‘I think we’re drawing near
‘The coast of Ireland, that is called Cape Clear.
‘Here, take the Spy-Glass—look with all your might.’
‘I see’t, by Ja—s, ’tis Clear out of sight.’
As to the Northward now the Wind did veer,
They trimm’d the Sails, and up the Channel steer;
Smoothly they ran, and, by the Convoy led,
They shortly cast their Anchor at Spithead.