And merrily on you bore
Your burden o’er the field of blue—
Trimm’d like a lovely girl—
Until the ghastly tempest grew,
And all hands ’gan to furl
Thy sails, to shun the dread “white squall,”—
That most unwelcome guest,—
The most portentous foe of all
Upon the ocean’s breast.
The minute-gun booms, but in vain;