The Fisher-boat

No reefer struts upon her deck — no boatswain pipes her crew,
Whose rough and tarry jackets are as often brown as blue ;
Her sails are torn, her timbers worn, she's but a crazy craft,
Yet luck betides her in the gale, and plenty crowns hei draught.
Let but a foe insult the land that holds their cottage home,
And English hearts will spring from out the merry little Foam :
What, oh ! what, oh ! away they go, the moon is high and bright,
God speed the little fisher-boat, and grant a starry night.

No pennant flutters at her mast, no port-holes range her side;
A dusky speck — she takes her place upon the midnight tide,
While gaily sings some happy boy, " A life upon the sea,
With jolly mates, a whiskey can, and trusty nets for me ! "
But many an hour of fearful risk she meets upon the wave,
That ships of stout and giant form would scarcely care to brave ;
And many a one with trembling hand will trim the beacon light,
And cry, "God speed the fisher-boat upon a stormy night! "

We proudly laud the daring ones that cross the pathless main,
The shining gems and yellow dust of other climes to gain ;
We honour those whose blood is with the mingled waters found,
Who fight till death to guard the cliffs whose waters circle round.
'Tis well, but let us not forget the poor and gallant set,
Who toil and watch, when others sleep, to cast the heavy net:
Their perils are not paid by fame — so trim the beacon light ;
And cry, " God speed the fisher-boat, and grant a starry night ! "