AS OF OLD

 
The fishermen bade their wives farewell,
(The sun floated merry up the morning)
They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,
"O come, lads, scorning
The highlands high,
There's no warning
In the blue south sky,
There's no warning,
O come, lads, free,
We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"
 
 
The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,
(O home it is happy where there's hoping)
 

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