To the pipe and wail of a tearing gale,
Carrying Starboard Ten.
I must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl,
North and South and back again with every lurching roll.
By the feel of the ship beneath I know the way she's going to swing,
But I mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing—
In a breaking sea with the land a-lee,
Carrying Starboard Ten.
And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night,
For it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light;