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Fine lead and quills, with corks both great and small,
Knife, file and thread, and little basket fit,
Plummets to sound the depth of clay and sand,
With pole and net to bring them safe to land.
And now we are arrived at the last
In wished harbour, where we mean to rest,
And make an end of this our journey past:
Here then in quiet road I think it best
We strike our sails and steadfast anchor cast,
For now the sun low setteth in the West.
And ye boatswains! a merry carol sing
To Him that safely did us hither bring.
FINIS.
