  We’re bound for blue water where the great winds blow, It’s time to get the tacks aboard, time for us to go; The crowd’s at the capstan and the tune’s in the shout, ‘A long pull, a strong pull, and warp the hooker out.’ The bow-wash is eddying, spreading from the bows, Aloft and loose the topsails and some one give a rouse; A salt Atlantic chanty shall be music to the dead, ‘A long pull, a strong pull, and the yard to the mast-head.’ Green and merry run the seas, the wind comes cold, Salt and strong and pleasant, and worth a mint of gold; ‘A long pull, a strong pull, and aft the main-sheet.’ Shrilly squeal the running sheaves, the weather-gear strains, Such a clatter of chain-sheets, the devil’s in the chains; Over us the bright stars, under us the drowned, ‘A long pull, a strong pull, and we’re outward bound.’ Yonder, round and ruddy, is the mellow old moon, The red-funnelled tug has gone, and now, sonny, soon We’ll be clear of the Channel, so watch how you steer, ‘Ease her when she pitches, and so-long, my dear.’ |
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