⁠Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
⁠And I look for the homeward fleet.
⁠Rattle of block and sheet—
"Ready about—stand by!"
⁠Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing
⁠In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
⁠On the horns of death I ride.
⁠A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
⁠Fretted and bound I bide
⁠Peril whereof I cry.
⁠Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!