Off to the Fishing Ground

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore

 Blowing over a silver sea,

There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide

 That calls enticingly;

The mist of dawn has taken flight

 To the dim horizon's bound,

And with wide sails set and eager hearts

 We're off to the fishing ground.

Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings

 Like a great sea-harp afar!

We whistle its wild notes back to it

 As we cross the harbor bar.

Behind us there are the homes we love

 And hearts that are fond and true,

And before us beckons a strong young day

 On leagues of glorious blue.

Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,

 A song of the orient sea!

We are the heirs of its tingling strife,

 Its courage and liberty.

Sing as the white sails cream and fill,

 And the foam in our wake is long,

Sing till the headlands black and grim

 Echo us back our song!

Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing

 To wake ere the night be done

And steer the course that our fathers steered

 In the path of the rising sun.

The wind and welkin and wave are ours

 Wherever our bourne is found,

And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep

 When we're off to the fishing ground.