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Well, well, it's not we that die That suffer; it's those we leave,
The babes for their bread that cry, The wife left to want and grieve !
I've looked from this very shore
Out over the racing foam, For a father to come no more
To gladden and feed a home.
'Twas fifty hard years ago, Yet it seems but as yesterday,
When that sobbing storm moaned low, As the tempest died away.
And I, but a small boy then,
Looked to sea from a drawn-up boat, And longed to be strong as men,
To work, for mother, afloat.
God helped us through weary years;
My manhood I reached at last; Then my mother no more knew tears ;
Then I wiped out the hungry past.