Fishers of Men

Quietly graceful through the night they sailed a lazy sea.
That old grey moon kept hanging round to keep them company.
No land as yet or soon suppose, they still a-ways to go.
For low the winds that bear them home, a blithely to and fro.

All wearied out and aching, too, though now their fishing done.
They hauled away ’till late the day, ’twas hailed, a rare day’s run.
The nets tied up and scrubbed the deck, they fed and bunkered down.
To sleep, they stray, farewell the day, for wears the night her gown.

Come hail the morrow, land ahoy, a harbour safe and sound.
Their well-earned toil to reap the spoil and pass the rum around.
Let not the weather change her mood, let lightly sail the foam.
As oft afore where waits the shore, a maiden’s welcome home.

Was nowt about, no hail or gale, aloft but moon and star.
No foghorn sounded warning calls, no storms rose near or far.
The sea as calm as ne’er before, ’twill always be unknown.
Why maidens still in mourning for those men who ne’er came home.