My Boat Is On The Bounding Tide, Away, Away From Surge And Shore; A Waif Upon The Wave I Ride, Without A Rudder Or An Oar. Blow As Ye List, Ye Breezes, Blow The Compass Now Is Nought To Me; Flow As Ye Will, Ye Billows, Flow, If But Ye Bear Me Out To Sea. Yon Waving Line Of Dusky Blue, Where Care And Toil Oppress The Heart To Thee I Bid A Long Adieu, And Smile To Feel That Thus We Part. There Let The Sweating Ploughman Toil, The Yearning Miser Count His Gain, The Fevered Scholar Waste His Oil, But I Am Bounding O'Er The Main! How Fresh These Breezes To The Brow How Dear This Freedom To The Soul; Bright Ocean, I Am With Thee Now, So Let Thy Golden Billows Roll! * * * * * But Stay What Means This Throbbing Brain This Heaving Chest These Pulses Quick? Oh, Take Me To The Land Again, For I Am Very, Very Sick!