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
everyone.
Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the
nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a
thousand more;
And shoulder them in to shore,
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
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.
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,
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;
With the burly rote 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,
But no man knows the
tongue.
Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
And willful she
must have been,
That she could bide at his gruesome side
When the first red
dawn came in.
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
'To handle the tallest mast;
From the royal barque to the slaver dark,
He buries them all
at last.
Then hay and rip, with a rolling hip,
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,
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.
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