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MY OLD FISHING-BOAT.
Yes, there she lies,
The lass that we prize, There she rests from her work awhile,
Hauled high on the beach
Where no waves can reach, Where at storms our lass can smile.
And she should be blest
With her turn of rest, Unvexed by the waves ; for why ?
Did she ever shirk
Her tide of work ? Who says it ? I trow, not I.