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THE DEAR ONES WE'VE LEFT AT HOME.
Our skipper is crabbed and stern;
To us he has but one tone ; But that he's a soft place somewhere,
I've a notion, my lads, I own ; For I've seen his face grow soft,
And a tear, or I'm blind, has come To his eyes as he's heard us toast,
The dear ones we've left at home.
And, say what you will, my mates,
Though stormy and rough is he, Somewhere on the land he'll show
What we seldom have glimpsed at sea ; For, hard though he be afloat,
I've seen to his rough eye come, A mist when, my lads, we've drunk,
To the dear ones we've left at home.