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A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strew The ground around; at every bound

the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor;—a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road,The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!

But courage still, brave mariners! the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing - here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time:

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!

Strike in, strike in-the sparks be gin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave

away, and the sighing seaman cheer;

When, weighing slow, at eve they go - far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

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