THERE’S no wind along these seas,
Out oars for Stavanger!
Forward all for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze.
Let fall for Stavanger!
A long pull for Stavanger!
Oh, hear the benches creak and strain!
She thinks she smells the Northland snow,
She thinks she smells the Northland rime,
She wants to be at her own home pier,
She wants to be in her winter-shed,
Her very bolts are sick for shore,
So all you Gods that love brave men,
Send us a gale, and watch us come,
But—there’s no wind on all these seas,