  Bark that bare me through foam and squall, You in the storm are my castle wall: Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop; On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store! On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor. She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn; For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale, And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone, Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, Answer me well—on the bursting brine Saw you ever a bark like mine? On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. Says Whillan—"Since first I was made of stone, I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone— Saw I never a bark like thine," On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. "God of the air!" the seamen shout, When they see us tossing the brine about: "Give us the shelter of strand or rock, Or through and through us she goes with a shock!" On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store! On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor! Sir Samuel Ferguson. |
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