I
With storms a-weather, rocks a-lee,The dancing skiff puts forth to sea.The lone dissenter in the blastRecoils before the sight aghast.But she, although the heavens be black,Holds on upon the starboard tack,For why? although to-day she sink,Still safe she sails in printer’s ink,And though to-day the seamen drown,My cut shall hand their memory down.