TWO o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow,
But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!
So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go—
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,
Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;
And here it comes—she'll be much too late—yes, damn it, she's out of tune—
You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,
And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;