 | Young Arthur |  |
Pipe all hands, for alive's the gale,
Weigh the anchor and set the sail;
Full fresh the breeze is blowing;
The anchor's up, and the sails are squar'd,
The helm in hand, and the harbour clear'd,
And over the seas we're going.
Weigh the anchor and set the sail;
Full fresh the breeze is blowing;
The anchor's up, and the sails are squar'd,
The helm in hand, and the harbour clear'd,
And over the seas we're going.
And many's the league from British land;
But, while slow dribbles the glass's sand,
The breeze so briskly blowing,
Many the knots in the hour we pass,
And free as the diamond cuts the glass
We cut the wave that's flowing.
But, while slow dribbles the glass's sand,
The breeze so briskly blowing,
Many the knots in the hour we pass,
And free as the diamond cuts the glass
We cut the wave that's flowing.
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And, hark, while trimming our canvass wings,
Gay, in the shrouds the sailor sings,
The breeze so briskly blowing;
And the helmsman echoes him as he steers,
And every bosom his burthen cheers,
“To British land we're going.”
Gay, in the shrouds the sailor sings,
The breeze so briskly blowing;
And the helmsman echoes him as he steers,
And every bosom his burthen cheers,
“To British land we're going.”
| Young Arthur | |