No fish stir  in our heaving net,
And the sky is dark, and the night is wet;
And we must ply the lusty oar,
For the tide is ebbing from the shore;
And sad are they whose fagots burn,
So kindly stored for our return.
Our boat is small and the tempest raves,
And nought is heard but the lashing waves,
And the sullen roar of the angry sea,
And the wild winds piping drearily;
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,
We'll bless our blazing hearths again
Push bravely, mates! Our guiding star
Now from its towerlet streameth far.
And now along the nearing strand,
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand:
Before the midnight watch be past,
We'll quaff our bowl and mock the blast.