The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE 28TH APRIL. 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.