| |
| OH, the shambling sea is a sexton old, | |
| And well his work is done. | |
| With an equal grave for lord and knave, | |
| He buries them every one. | |
| |
| Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, | 5 |
| He makes for the nearest shore; | |
| And God, who sent him a thousand ship, | |
| Will send him a thousand more; | |
| But some he ’ll save for a bleaching grave, | |
| And shoulder them in to shore,— | 10 |
| Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, | |
| Shoulder them in to shore. | |
| |
| Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre | |
| Went out, and where are they? | |
| In the port they made, they are delayed | 15 |
| With the ships of yesterday. | |
| |
| He followed the ships of England far, | |
| As the ships of long ago; | |
| And the ships of France they led him a dance, | |
| But he laid them all arow. | 20 |
| |
| Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him | |
| Is the sexton of the town; | |
| For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, | |
| He shovels the dead men down. | |
| |
| But though he delves so fierce and grim, | 25 |
| His honest graves are wide, | |
| As well they know who sleep below | |
| The dredge of the deepest tide. | |
| |
| Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, | |
| And loud is the chorus skirled; | 30 |
| With the burly note of his rumbling throat | |
| He batters it down the world. | |
| |
| He learned it once in his father’s house, | |
| Where the ballads of eld were sung; | |
| And merry enough is the burden rough, | 35 |
| But no man knows the tongue. | |
| |
| Oh, fair they say, was his bride to see, | |
| And wilful she must have been, | |
| That she could bide at his gruesome side | |
| When the first red dawn came in. | 40 |
| |
| And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those | |
| She greets to his border home; | |
| And softer than sleep her hand’s first sweep | |
| That beckons, and they come. | |
| |
| Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough | 45 |
| To handle the tallest mast; | |
| From the royal barque to the slaver dark, | |
| He buries them all at last. | |
| |
| Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, | |
| He makes for the nearest shore; | 50 |
| And God, who sent him a thousand ship, | |
| Will send him a thousand more; | |
| |
| But some he ’ll save for a bleaching grave, | |
| And shoulder them in to shore,— | |
| Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, | 55 |
| Shoulder them in to shore. | |
| |
