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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 307 |
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But courage still, brave mariners—the Bower yet remains,
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high,
Then moves his head, as tho' he said, " Fear nothing —here ami!" |
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Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep
time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's
chime; But, while ye sling your sledges, sing—and let the
burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! |
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Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their
rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will
soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change its bed of fiery rich
array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch
of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the
sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow at eve they go—far, far from
love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean
foam. |
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