Off the coast of the Isle of Peril,
In the depths of the heaving tides,
All aglow through its walls of beryl
Is the house where the Sea King bides.
There he laughs when the norther rages,
There he dreams while the surges drone;
And the spoils of the fleets of ages
Are the tithes of his sapphire throne.
Through the spray of the booming waters,
Through the chant of the swinging sea,
Thrills the song of the Sea King's daughters--
And it comes as a call to me.
Oh, the sky is a turquoise chalice
And the bar is a golden glaive,
As I plunge to the Sea King's palace
In the gulfs of the cool, green wave!
