For England when with favoring gale Our gallant ship up channel steered, And, scudding under easy sail, The high blue western land appeared; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, “By the deep—nine!” And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-known object kept in view,— An abbey-tower, a harbor-fort, Or beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, “By the mark—seven!” And as the much-loved shore we near, With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, Of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, “Quarter less—five!” Now to her berth the ship draws nigh: We shorten sail,—she feels the tide,— “Stand clear the cable” is the cry,— The anchor ’s gone; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night We hear the seamen with delight Proclaim,—“All ’s well!”
The Heaving of the Lead
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