Staggering over the running combers

The long-ship heaves her dripping flanks,

Singing together, the sea-roamers

Drive the oars grunting in the banks.

A long pull,

And a long long pull to Mydath.

‘Where are ye bound, ye swart sea-farers,

Vexing the grey wind-angered brine,

Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearers

Of goat-skins filled with country wine?’

‘We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing,

Over the whale’s way miles and miles,

Going to Vine-Land, haply going

To the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles.

‘In the wind’s teeth and the spray’s stinging

Westward and outward forth we go,

Knowing not whither nor why, but singing

An old old oar-song as we row.

A long pull,

And a long long pull to Mydath.’