My Father He Was A Fisherman

MY father he was a fisherman, That wrought at the break o' day, And hither and thither the long tides ran I' the long blue bay. 'The tides go up and the tides go down, But what do you know of the sea ?' Her voice, i' the long gray streets o' the town, Is singing to me. 'What do you know of the sails at dawn, What of the shell-white foam ?' Cheerly and sweet, from a world withdrawn, They are calling me home. 'What is the grief you fain would tell When your eyes are turned on me ?' O, well it was taught and I learned it well,– The grief o' the sea. 'Where do you travel and where do you sleep, Where shall you take your rest ?' At the inn that shelters my father, deep I' the seas o' the west.