“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 washed his swarthy cheek.

“What shall I say, brave Adm’r’l, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”

“Why, you shall say at break of day:

‘Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!’”

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said: