I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
Off Cape Horn there are but two kinds of weather, neither one of them a pleasant kind.
My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.
All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.
Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down.