"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"
Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.
Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow, at eve they go—far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.
In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;