The wind lashed the sea, and the sea lashed the ship; You
steered through the tempest's commotion. We drink to you,
Captain, and lift the glass high; We'll meet again on this
ocean. No Lloyds would insure your small, secret craft Nor the
perilous course it wages; But though in the Atlas no record be
kept, We'll chart it in history's pages. This frail, hidden
fleet, grey and silent, will be The subject of song and story;
And many a captain who hears of the tale Will envy you, Captain,
your glory. A toast to the darkness that swooped on the ship,
And crouched on the long lights that sought her; Oh, Captain,
Godspeed to the small wooden boats, Godspeed to these ships on
the water! A toast to the lads that took up the fight And made
it their people's Trafalgar; They turn each frail ship to a
mailed man-of-war; The ship is of steel - it will conquer! Years
to come - you'll be sipping a glass of mulled wine, Or quaffing
a draught that is stronger; Then you'll smile, draw your pipe,
and shake your grey head, And thi