AS OF OLD

The fishermen bade their wives farewell,

( The sun floated merry up the morning )

They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,

“O come, lads, scorning

The highlands high,

There's no warning

In the blue south sky,

There's no warning,

O come, lads, free,

We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!”

The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,

( O home it is happy where there's hoping )

They prayed — till the mist dimmed each dim mast:

Then “We're not moping,”

They sweetly sang,

“Winds come groping

And clouds o'erhang,

But we're not moping

Tho left ashore;

They'll come to us at dusk when day is o'er.”

But swifter than God the sea-quake came,

( The fishers they were swallowed in its swirling )

O swifter than men could name God's name.

And white waves curling

Hissed in to shore.

The sea-birds whirling

Saw what, dashed hoar?

The sea-birds whirling

Saw dead upborne

The fishers that went forth upon the morn.