Driven by the sour stinging water
Winds that numb the flesh and chill the bone
Ice upon the decks and fog that thickens
As darkness falls a hundred miles from home
The fisherman far out beyond the islands
Where there can be no telling of the hours
Does battle with the sea from which he plunders
And risks his life to add the spice to ours
The sea that shows no mercy to the sailor
An adversary callous, cold, and wild
That knows no depth of feeling save in fathoms
And grasps alike at woman, man, or child
He turns his back upon the chill nor-easter
Intent upon the work that must be done
Then sets his course for harbour in the morning
Another few days living barely won
Oh, who are we to talk about his trials
Who take our seats and watch him from afar
Safe within the havens of our cities
And leave the other man to fight the war
So spare a thought for him that sails the tideway
And take him not for granted if you can
Our ways may die as winter follows summer
But he will always be the fisherman |
