Dark o’erhead[21] the storm-clouds gather,
Huge waves mountains form,
As a stout[2] old ship comes struggling
On against the storm.
Hark![3] e’en now across the billows
On the wind there floats,
Sharp and shrill, the boatswain’s whistle
Sounding,[5] “Man the boats!”
At the sound, from cabin doorways,
Rushing out headlong,