THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

When freshly blows the northern gale,

And under courses snug we fly;

Or when light breezes swell the sail,

And royals proudly sweep the sky;

‘ Longside the wheel, unwearied still

I stand, and, as my watchful eye

Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,

I think of her I love, and cry,

Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow

Right from the point we wish to steer;

When by the wind close-hauled we go.

And strive in vain the port to near;

I think‘ tis thus the fates defer

My bliss with one that's far away,

And while remembrance springs to her,

I watch the sails and sighing say,

Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft,

All hands are up the yards to square,

And now the floating stu'n-sails waft

Our stately ship thro’ waves and air.

Oh! then I think that yet for me

Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,

Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee —

And in that hope I smiling sing,

Steady, boy! so.