In early youth to fear a stranger,
  Contemning indolence and ease,
In Albion's cause I courted danger,
  And vent'rous plough'd the stormy seas;
I dreaded not the cannon's thunder,
  Let bullets range their wonted scope,
Or tempests split our bark asunder,
  The tar's sheet-anchor still is Hope.

In hammock lull'd to sleep, or waking,
  The mid-watch come, or slung the bowl,
Or signal-guns, distress bespeaking,
  Implore for aid, while tempests howl.
Or when the battle's heat is raging,
  With force superior Britons cope,
The mind to placid ease assuaging,
  The tar's sheet-anchor still is Hope.