Though the mist upon our jackets In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly From off the frozen reels, Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud, We will whistle down the wild wind, And laugh beneath the cloud!
In the darkness as in daylight, On the water as on land, God’s eye is looking on us, And beneath us is his hand! Death will find us soon or later, On the deck or in the cot; And we cannot meet him better Than in working out our lot.
Hurrah! hurrah! The west wind Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling,— Give way, my lads, give way! Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth, like a weed. The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed!
Excelsior.
