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So swing her head 'round, we're heading for the wester',
Swing her head 'round, we're heading off the bay;
Oh, swing her head 'round, we're heading t'wards the sunset,
Towards the sunset, in search of yesterday.
All cares will vanish as soon as we clear Bertold,
And the seven combers that roll there day by day;
We're joined again with those who sail before us,
T'wards Chapereau or out to Golden Bay.
Our thoughts go back now to those trim yankee bankers,
Taking bait on for Georges or the Briar;
And the song-sung men like those who sailed from Bruley,
Bound for St. Peters in the springtime of the year.
Lost in the mists are the ghosts of sturdy hunters,
From Rose-a-rue still searching for the whale;
And the ghostly fleet forever beating win'ard,
Forever riding that fabled August gale.
And the ghosts of those who forever are returning,
From far aport or the Indies with their charms;
Driving bows under to make it home for Christmas,
To kitchen fires and women's waiting arms.
So... the Islands stand now like silent grey reminders,
Of times gone by when Nat was in his prime;
They hold the secret for all who wish to find it,
Forever flowing in blood like yours and mine.
