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By the storm-torn shoreline a woman is standing |
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The spray strung like jewels in her hair |
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And the sea tore the rocks near the desolate landing as though it had known she stood there. |
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Chorus: For she had come down to condemn that wild ocean for the murderous loss of her man, |
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His boat sailed out on |
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Wednesday morning |
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And it's feared it's gone down with all hands. |
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Oh and white were the wave-caps |
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And wild was their parting |
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So fierce is the warring of love, |
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But she prayed to the gods |
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Both of men and of sailors |
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Not to cast their cruel nets o'er her love. |
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There's a school on the hill |
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Where the songs of dead fathers |
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Are led toward tempests and gales, |
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Where their |
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God-given wings |
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Are clipped close to their bodies, |
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And their eyes are bound-'round with ships' sails. |
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What force leads a man |
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To a life filled with danger |
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High on seas or a mile underground? |
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It's when need is his master |
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And poverty's no stranger, |
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And there's no other work to be found. |
