To bid the fisherman bold beware
O’ th’ coming tempest’s wrath.
The night grows dark, and the winds roar high,
The wild waves proudly swell;
But mid the dread gloom, no star in the sky,
The mariner’s path to tell!
Each billow comes on like a mountain rock
To crush his fragile bark,
And cast him far down with an awful shock
To a grave in the waters dark.