tr. by Alfred P. Graves
With swelling sail, away, away!|
Our bark goes bounding o'er the bay!
Farewell, farewell, old Arranmore!
She courtseys, courtseys to the shore.
Farewell, fond wives and children dear!
From ev'ry ill heav'n keep you clear;
Till through the surge we stagger back,
As full of fish as we can pack
2. For when we've sowed and gardened here,
3. There, there the reeling ridge we plough,|
Our coulter keen the cutter's prow;
While fresh and fresh from out the trawl
The fish by hundreds in we haul.
4. Thou glorious sun, gleam on above
5. Until, one glitt'ring realm of grain,
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