When I'm afloat in a cockle-shell,
Confronted by the raging swell
Of ocean in a roaring gale,
If I'm alone I have no fear
Of what awaits, in woe or cheer,
If into port or not I sail.

'Tis good to match the might of me
Against the raging of the sea,
Whatever be the ultimate;
Within my heart and soul to find
To fight the wiles of tide and wind
A courage eager and elate.

Mine is the loss if loss comes by!
Mine is the bliss of Victory!
Mine is the woe, and mine the gain!
Mine is the joy that comes apace
To victors in the stormy race—
If conquered mine is all the pain!

But when another sitteth near,
'Tis then my heart grows chill with fear,
And dangers looming high appall.
The waves with overwhelming height
Seem dreadful in their awful might,
As round about they rise and fall.

And tremblingly I run my race,
With frenzied heart, and pallid face,
And darkling terror is my meed—
Not that I fear the raging sea,
But lest a perfect Faith in me
Shall find me wanting in the deed!