Bo'sun, O Bo'sun, just look at the green of it!
Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!
Look at the farmsteading--all that is seen of it,
One little gable end over the edge!'

'Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,
All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;
Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,
Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.'

Spread the topgallants--oh, lay them out lustily!
What though it darken o'er Netherby Combe?
'Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily -
On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

'Bo'sun, O Bo'sun, just see the long slope of it!
Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.
Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?
Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?'

'Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily!
Aye, as you say, sir, they're little ones still;
One long reach should open it readily,
Round by St. Helens and under the hill.

'The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,
Their mothers to them--and to us it's our wives.
I've sailed forty years, and--By God it's upon us!
Down royals, Down top'sles, down, down, for your lives!'