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SEA SONGS. 131
You landsmen but now and then Think a week or two should be passed
Here, trying to feel like men, Salted red by the keen sea-blast.
So you that live with the land,
From our roar and our foam so far,
You never can understand
What the lives of us sea-mates are.
We are born—that roar in our ears ;
We grow—to sport on those waves ; Bread they give to us—hopes and fears,
Just all, till they find us graves.
Ah, masters, there's never a cot
Up there, that the storm howls round,
Whence some winner of bread has not A grave in yon deep sea found.
Bless your God, you have not to think As we, with the storms at strife,
Some day we must surely sink
With a last thought of child and wife.