Over the briny wave I go,
In spite of the weather, in spite of the snow:
What cares the hardy Eskimo?
In my little skiff, with paddle and lance,
I glide where the foaming billows dance.
Round me the sea-birds slip and soar;
Like me, they love the ocean’s roar.
Sometimes a floating iceberg gleams
Above me with its melting streams;
Sometimes a rushing wave will fall
Down on my skiff and cover it all.
But what care I for a wave’s attack?
With my paddle I right my little kayak,
And then its weight I speedily trim,
And over the water away I skim.