The topsails shiver in the wind,
  The ship she casts to sea;
But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
  Are, Mary, moor'd with thee:
    For though thy sailor's bound afar,
    Still love shall be his leading star.

 ... 

Sirens in ev'ry part we meet,
  More fell than rocks or waves;
But such as grace the British fleet
  Are lovers and not slaves:
    No foes our courage shall subdue,
    Although we've left our hearts with you.

Should landsmen flatter when we've sail'd,
  O, doubt their artful tales;
No gallant sailor ever fail'd,
  If love breath'd constant gales:
    Thou art the compass of my soul,
    Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

 ... 

These are our cares; but if you're kind,
    We'll scorn the dashing main,
The rocks, and billows, and the wind,
  Will threaten us in vain.
Now England's glory rests with you,
    Our sails are full, sweet girls, adieu!