She thinks she smells the Northland snow, And she's as glad as we to go.
She thinks she smells the Northland rime, And the dear dark nights of winter-time.
Her very bolts are sick for shore, And we—we want it ten times more!
So all you Gods that love brave men, Send us a three-reef gale again!
Send us a gale, and watch us come, With close-cropped canvas slashing home!
But—there's no wind in all these seas. A long pull for Stavanger! So we must wake the white-ash breeze, A long pull for Stavanger!