Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
	Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!
	Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter’d bark delay,
	Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

Campbell.    

	O Thou, who in Thy hand dost hold
	The winds and waves that wake or sleep,
	Thy tender arms of mercy fold
	Around the seamen on the deep.

Hannah F. Gould.    

	I love the sailor; his eventful life—
	His generous spirit—his contempt of danger—
	His firmness in the gale, the wreck, the strife;
	And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger,
	God grant he make the port, when life is o’er,
	Where storms are hush’d, and billows break no more.

Walter Colton.    

	Hark to the Boatswain’s call, the cheering cry!
	While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides;
	Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by,
	Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
	And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

Byron.    

	There’s one whose fearless courage yet has never failed in fight;
	Who guards with zeal our country’s weal, our freedom, and our right;
	But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow;
	Cry “Quarter!” and that arm will be the first to spare its foe.
	He recks not though proud Glory’s shout may be the knell of death;
	The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath.
	He’s Britain’s boast, and claims a toast! “In peace, my boys, or war,
	Here’s to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English Tar.”

Eliza Cook.