  Staggering over the running combers The long-ship heaves her dripping flanks, Singing together, the sea-roamers Drive the oars grunting in the banks. A long pull, And a long long pull to Mydath. ‘Where are ye bound, ye swart sea-farers, Vexing the grey wind-angered brine, Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearers Of goat-skins filled with country wine?’ ‘We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing, Over the whale’s way miles and miles, Going to Vine-Land, haply going To the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles. ‘In the wind’s teeth and the spray’s stinging Westward and outward forth we go, Knowing not whither nor why, but singing An old old oar-song as we row. A long pull, And a long long pull to Mydath.’ |
|
