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They christened my brother of old,
  And a saintly name he bears;
They gave him his place to hold
  At the head of the belfry stairs,
  Where the minster-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
  Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

In the flush of the hot June prime,
  O'er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
  To the bidding of checked Desire,
  Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
  Could I wait for my turn in the pimping choir?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

When the smoking scud is blown,
  And the greasy wind-rack lowers,
Apart and at peace and alone,
  He counts the changeless hours.
  He wars with darkling towers;
I war with a darkling sea.
  Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he.

There was never a priest to pray,
  There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard o' the bay
  And moored me over the shoal.
  I rock and I reel and I roll;
My four great hammers ply.
  Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

The landward marks have failed,
  The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
  The spent deep feigns her rest;
  But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell, I cry.
  Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.