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England, when, with fav’ring gale,

Our gallant ship up channel steer’d,

And scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear’d,

To heave the lead the seaman sprung,

And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“By the deep—!”

But bearing up to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view—

An abbey-tow’r, an harbour-fort,

Or beacon, to the vessel true;

While oft the lead the seaman flung,

And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“By the mark—!”

And as the much-lov’d shore we near,

With transports we behold the roof

Where dwells 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,

“Quarterless—!"

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh,

With slacken’d sail she feels the tide;

Stand clear the cable! is the cry—

The anchor’s gone, we safely ride,

The watch is set, and thro’ the night,

We hear the seamen with delight,

“Proclaim—."

, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,

To add something new to this wonderful year;

To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,

For who are so free as the sons of the waves.

Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,

We always are ready,

Steady, boys, steady;

We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.