BALLAD. (The boatswain calls, the wind is fair)

The boatswain calls, the wind is fair, The anchor heaving, Our sweethearts leaving, We to duty must repair, Where our stations well we know:

Cast off halliards from the cleets, Stand by well, clear all the sheets; Come my boys, Your handspikes poise, And give one general huzza: Yet sighing as you pull away, For the tears ashore that flow, To the windlass let us go, With yo heave ho!

The anchor coming now apeak, Lest the ship, striving, Be on it driving, That we the tap'ring yards must seek, And back the foretop-sail well we know:

A pleasing duty! from aloft We faintly see those charms where oft, When returning, With passion burning, We fondly gaze, those eyes that seem In parting with big tears to stream; But come, lest ours as fast should flow, To the windlass once more go, With yo heave ho!

Now the ship is under weigh, The breeze so willing The canvass filling, The prest triangle cracks the stay, So taught to haul the sheet we know:

And now in trim we gaily sail, The massy beam receives the gale, While freed from duty To his beauty, Left on the less'ning shore afar, A fervent sigh heaves every tar, To thank those tears for him that flow, That from his true love he should go, With yo heave ho!