Staggering over the running combers 
The long-ship heaves her dripping flanks, 
Singing together, the sea-roamers 
Drive the oars grunting in the banks. 
A long pull,
And a long long pull to Mydath. 

"Where are ye bound, ye swart sea-farers, 
Vexing the grey wind-angered brine, 
Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearers 
Of goat-skins filled with country wine?"

"We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing, 
Over the whale's way miles and miles, 
Going to Vine-Land, haply going 
To the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles.

"In the wind's teeth and the spray's stinging 
Westward and outward forth we go, 
Knowing not whither nor why, but singing 
An old old oar-song as we row. 
A long pull, 
And a long long pull to Mydath."