Anonymous
’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars;
With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale;
On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew, steady and strong,
As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.
There was no talk of short’ning sail by him who walked the poop,