Roughing It

"Oh, is there no retreat?"
Said Dollinger, the pilot man, 
As on the vessel flew,

"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, 
And he will fetch you through."
A panic struck the bravest hearts, 
The boldest cheek turned pale;

For plain to all, this shoaling said 
A leak had burst the ditch's bed! 
And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped, 
Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead,

Before the fearful gale!
"Sever the tow-line!  Cripple the mules!" 
Too late!  There comes a shock! 
Another length, and the fated craft

Would have swum in the saving lock!
Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew 
And took one last embrace, 
While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes 
Ran down each hopeless face;

And some did think of their little ones 
Whom they never more might see, 
And others of waiting wives at home, 
And mothers that grieved would be.
But of all the children of misery there 
On that poor sinking frame, 
But one spake words of hope and faith,

And I worshipped as they came: 
Said Dollinger the pilot man,— 
(O brave heart, strong and true!)—

"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, 
For he will fetch you through."
Lo!  scarce the words have passed his lips 
The dauntless prophet say'th, 
When every soul about him seeth 
A wonder crown his faith!

"And count ye all, both great and small, 
As numbered with the dead: 
For mariner for forty year, 
On Erie, boy and man, 
I never yet saw such a storm, 
Or one't with it began!"

So overboard a keg of nails 
And anvils three we threw, 
Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks, 
Two hundred pounds of glue, 
Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat, 
A box of books, a cow, 
A violin, Lord Byron's works, 
A rip-saw and a sow.