O, we whistle a song as we swash along
Through gullies and mountain high,
As we hunt the dark, and we hunt the rain,
And we hunt the haunts of the wind’s domain,
For a glim in the inky sky.
O, the bloom of the night as she heaves in sight,
On the desolate water’s wings!
O, the bellying sheer (and no Chaplain near)
Where the old ship’s ladder swings.
O, the pomp and the rift, the slip and the shift,