I love to sweep o’er the foaming deep,
When the tempest-king is out.
Some love to list while ladies sing,
Amid the festive crowd—
I love the music of the wind,
As it whistles through the shroud.
Some love to urge the courser’s speed,
Swift as the wind to flee—
Hurrah! for a ride o’er the rushing tide!
A race with the angry sea!