I mustn't look up from the compass-card, nor look at the seas at all,

I must watch the helm and compass-card,—If I heard the trumpet-call

Of Gabriel sounding Judgment Day to dry the Seas again,

I must hold her bow to windward now till I'm relieved again—

I must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl,

North and South and back again with every lurching roll.

By the feel of the ship beneath I know the way she's going to swing,

But I mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing—

And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night,

For it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light;

But the spokes are bright, and I note beside in the corner of my eye

A shimmer of light on oilskin wet that shows the Owner nigh—

Heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now;

Though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow,

I've got my eyes on the compass-card, and though she broke her keel

And hit the bottom beneath us now, you'd find me at the wheel—