Beat off in our last fight were we? The greater need to seek the sea. For Fortune changeth as the moon To caravel and picaroon. Then Eastward Ho! or Westward Ho! Whichever wind may meetest blow. Our quarry sails on either sea, Fat prey for such bold lads as we, And every sun-dried buccaneer Must hand and reef and watch and steer, And bear great wrath of sea and sky Before the plate-ships wallow by. Now, as our tall bows take the foam, Let no man tum his heart to home, Save to desire plunder more And larger warehouse for his store, When treasure won from Santos Bay Shall make our sea-washed village gay.