Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye

On Alec Yeaton’s son!”

Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailed

Towards the headland light:

The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,

And black, black fell the night.

Then burst a storm to make one quail

Though housed from winds and waves—

They who could tell about that gale

Must rise from watery graves!