The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE     28TH APRIL.[1]     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.