Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore, and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the sons of the sea.
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea-gull's call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives？ He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade1, and the scent2 of the mango grove3, And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love. But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee： Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge4, where the low sky mates with the sea.
