Written Aboard The Boston Frigate 28Th April.[1] When Freshly Blows The Northern Gale, And Under Courses Snug We Fly; Or When Light Breezes Swell The Sail, And Royals Proudly Sweep The Sky; 'Longside The Wheel, Unwearied Still I Stand, And, As My Watchful Eye Doth Mark The Needle'S Faithful Thrill, I Think Of Her I Love, And Cry, Port, My Boy! Port. When Calms Delay, Or Breezes Blow Right From The Point We Wish To Steer; When By The Wind Close-Hauled We Go. And Strive In Vain The Port To Near; I Think 'Tis Thus The Fates Defer My Bliss With One That's Far Away, And While Remembrance Springs To Her, I Watch The Sails And Sighing Say, Thus, My Boy! Thus. But See The Wind Draws Kindly Aft, All Hands Are Up The Yards To Square, And Now The Floating Stu'N-Sails Waft Our Stately Ship Thro' Waves And Air. Oh! Then I Think That Yet For Me Some Breeze Of Fortune Thus May Spring, Some Breeze To Waft Me, Love, To Thee-- And In That Hope I Smiling Sing, Steady, Boy! So.