The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]


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.