Navigation

O pilot! 'tis a fearful night,There's danger on the deep.

— Navigation

How Bishop Aidan foretold to certain seamen a storm that would happen, and gave them some holy oil to lay it.

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O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Survey our empire, and behold our home!

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Here's to the pilot that weathered the storm.

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And as great seamen, using all their wealthTo put a girdle round about the world.

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A wet sheet and a flowing sea, Old England in the lee.

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Soon shall thy arm, unconquered steam, afarThe flying chariot through the fields of air.

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For they say there's a Providence sits up aloftTo keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

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There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

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Skill'd in the globe and sphere, he gravely stands,And, with his compass, measures seas and lands.

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The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.

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Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold And the crew of the captain's gig.

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Thus, I steer my bark, and sailOn even keel, with gentle gale.

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Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play,I mind my compass and my way.

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What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore,Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.

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Yet the best pilots have need of mariners, besides sails, anchor and other tackle.

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Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam,Where the shrill winds whistle free.

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Thus far we run before the wind.

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Ye gentlemen of England The dangers of the seas.

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A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill! Unhappy folks on shore now!

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And that all seas are made calme and still with oile; and therefore the Divers under the water doe spirt and sprinkle it aboard with their mouthes because it dulceth and allaieth the unpleasant nature thereof, and carrieth a light with it.

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Why does pouring Oil on the Sea make it Clear and Calm? Is it for that the winds, slipping the smooth oil, have no force, nor cause any waves?

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Well, then—our course is chosen—spread the sail—Who, like ambition, lures men to their ruin.

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Merrily, merrily goes the bark Or the swan through the summer sea.

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Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, Furrow the green sea-foam.

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Behold the threaden sails,Breasting the lofty surge.

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Ye who dwell at home,Ye do not know the terrors of the main.

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Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer! Sing the dangers of the sea.

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Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

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There were three sailors of Bristol CityThey'd nothing left but one split pea.

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On deck beneath the awning, With universal noise.

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He hath put a girdle 'bout the worldAnd sounded all her quicksands.

— Navigation