 | Poems |  |
FROM SEA
O it was not for my mother,
Though dear she is to me,
Though old she is, and poor she is,
That I sail'd the stormy sea;
But it was for my true love,
That dearer is to me
Than father and than mother both,
'Twas for her I sail'd the sea.
Though dear she is to me,
Though old she is, and poor she is,
That I sail'd the stormy sea;
But it was for my true love,
That dearer is to me
Than father and than mother both,
'Twas for her I sail'd the sea.
The wind blows fair and freshly,
Right fresh for Harwich bay,
For the cottage on its sandy cliff
That I think of night and day:
That I think of, and I dream of,
And have dreamt of night and day,
In calm and storm, and south the line,
A thousand leagues away.
Right fresh for Harwich bay,
For the cottage on its sandy cliff
That I think of night and day:
That I think of, and I dream of,
And have dreamt of night and day,
In calm and storm, and south the line,
A thousand leagues away.
Now, watch, look out to leeward;
The land must sure be near;
There looms the Cape through the morning mist,
That I've long'd to see appear,
To see it rising from the waves,
For it shields the quiet bay,
Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands
That I've pray'd for far away.
The land must sure be near;
There looms the Cape through the morning mist,
That I've long'd to see appear,
To see it rising from the waves,
For it shields the quiet bay,
Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands
That I've pray'd for far away.
251
Now, men, the sails be furling;
Now let the anchor go;
At our brown ship's side, let our best boat ride,
And the oars be shipp'd below;
And while the rope you're casting off,
Take in my chest and me;
So farewell, blustering captain,
And farewell, roaring sea.
Now let the anchor go;
At our brown ship's side, let our best boat ride,
And the oars be shipp'd below;
And while the rope you're casting off,
Take in my chest and me;
So farewell, blustering captain,
And farewell, roaring sea.
Now pull—pull with a will—boys,
And beach right high the boat,
For dear, dear is the land to me,
That have toss'd so long afloat;
And dear, dear is the girl to me,
With each breath loved more and more,
Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes,
To see us pull ashore.
And beach right high the boat,
For dear, dear is the land to me,
That have toss'd so long afloat;
And dear, dear is the girl to me,
With each breath loved more and more,
Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes,
To see us pull ashore.
She shades her eyes a moment;
O that the beach were near!
Does she see my torn hat waving?
Does she catch my cry from here?
Yes; down the cliff she's flying;
Pull—pull, my men, for life,
That I may kiss again my girl,
My bonny, bonny wife.
O that the beach were near!
Does she see my torn hat waving?
Does she catch my cry from here?
Yes; down the cliff she's flying;
Pull—pull, my men, for life,
That I may kiss again my girl,
My bonny, bonny wife.
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