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(From Many Inventions).

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short


Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on

the pawl. Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and

fullReady jib to pay her off and heave short all!

Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more

with you, my loveDown, set down your liquor and your girl

from off your knee;

For the wind has come to say:

You must take me while you may, If you'd go to Mother Carey,

(Walk her down to Mother Carey!) Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where

she feeds her chicks at sea!”

Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o'

that! Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash,

and clear. Port-port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath

her foot, And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this


Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take

her out againTake her out in ballast, riding light and


And it's time to clear and quit

When the hawser grips the bitt,
So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a

promise from the sea!

Heh! Tally on! Aft and walk away with her! Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the

fall! Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.

Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!

Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's

took hold of us,

Choking down our voices as we snatch the

gaskets free.

And it's blowing up for night,

And she's dropping Light on Light, And she's snorting under bonnets for a

breath of open sea.

Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone

to-night. Sick she is and harbour-sick-O sick to clear the

land! Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign

over us Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll


Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant gives

the door to us, Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud

to lea:

Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
And we're off to Mother Carey

(Walk her down to Mother Carey!)
Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where

she feeds her chicks at sea!


THERE dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,

And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o'rovin’ men

And casts them over sea,

And some are drowned in deep water,

And some in sight o'shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife,

And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate and gear,

And hearth and garth and bield, She willed her sons to the white harvest,

And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,

To ride the horse of tree;
And syne her sons come home again

Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again

With little into their hands, But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men

In the new and naked lands.

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men

By more than the easy breath,
And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men

In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,

But poor in the goods o' men, So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth

They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked skin,

Or win to their hearts' desire, They tell it all to the weary wife

That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind

That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides

Her sons go out and in;

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