The good mate said: “Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone;
Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?”
“Why, say, ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”
“My men grow mutinous day by day:
My men grow ghastly wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave wash’d his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”