Fisherman's Luck and Some Other Uncertain Things

A SLUMBER SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

          Furl your sail, my little boatie;
              Here 's the haven, still and deep,
          Where the dreaming tides, in-streaming,
                   Up the channel creep.
          See, the sunset breeze is dying;
          Hark, the plover, landward flying,
          Softly down the twilight crying;
              Come to anchor, little boatie,
                  In the port of Sleep.

          Far away, my little boatie,
              Roaring waves are white with foam;
          Ships are striving, onward driving,
                  Day and night they roam.
          Father 's at the deep-sea trawling,
          In the darkness, rowing, hauling,
          While the hungry winds are calling,—
             God protect him, little boatie,
                  Bring him safely home!

          Not for you, my little boatie,
              Is the wide and weary sea;
          You 're too slender, and too tender,
                  You must rest with me.
          All day long you have been straying
          Up and down the shore and playing;
          Come to port, make no delaying!
              Day is over, little boatie,
                  Night falls suddenly.

          Furl your sail, my little boatie;
              Fold your wings, my tired dove.
          Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling
                  Drowsily above.
          Cease from sailing, cease from rowing;
          Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing
          Safely o'er your rest are glowing,
              All the night, my little boatie,
                  Harbour-lights of love.