See how she's meeting them, plunging all the while,
Till I'm wet to the sea-boot knee;
See how she's beating them—twenty to the mile—
The waves of the cold North Sea.
Right across from Helgoland to meet the English coast,
Lie better than the likes of we,—
Men that lived in many ways, but went to join the host
That are buried by the cold North Sea.
Rig along the life-lines, double-stay the rails,
Lest the Storm-King call for a fee;