132 



FISHERMENS MEMORIAL AND RECORD BOOK. 



Sometimes to me the breeze off-shore 



Comes out upon the water, 

 As if it left the grave of her 



No wife to me nor daughter. 

 Lor ! if I knowed where green or no 



The turf is sweet above her, 

 I'd buy a bit o' ground there, wide 



As a gull's wings wonld cover. 



We know the tricks of wind an' tide 



That mean an' make disaster, 

 An' balk 'em, too the " Wren " an' me 



Off on the Ol' Man's Pastur'. 

 Day out an' in the blackfish there 



Go wabblin' out an' under, 

 An' nights we watch the coasters creep 



From light to light in yonder. 



An' then ag*in we lay an' lay 



Off Wonson's Cove or Oakses 

 None go by our compass-light, 



Nor we by other folkses. 

 Ashore, the ball-room winders shine 



Till weary feet are warnin', 

 But here an' there's a sick-room light 



That winks away till mornin'. 



An' Sundays we go nigher In, 



To hear the bells a-ringin', 

 I aint no hand for sermons, you, 



But singin's allers singin'. 

 The weathercocks no two agree 



Like men they arg' an' differ, 

 While in the cuddy-way I set 



An' take my pipe, an' whiff her. 



My pipe eh! p'ison? mighty s-l-o-w; 



It makes my dreamin' clearer. 

 Though what I fill it with now-days 



Is growin' dearer 'n' dearer. 

 I takes my comfort when it cornea, 



Then no lee-lurch can spill it, 

 An' if my net is empty, Lor" I 



Why, how can growlin' fill it? 



An' so we jog the hours away, 



The gulls they coo an' tattle, 

 Till on the hill the sundown red 



Starts up the drowsin' cattle. 

 The seiners row their jiggers by; 



I pull the slide half over, 

 An' shet the shore out, an" the smell 



Of sea-weed sweeter'n clover. 



Scribner'a Monthly. 



THE TIDE. 



BT HENRY A. KENDALL. 



The tide is in, anon is out, 

 Nor lingers at the turning; 



And man, as restless as the sea, 

 Its thriftlessness is learning ; 



Two busy brothers gathering in, 

 And having gathered, spurning. 



The waves bring pearls upon the shore, 

 Yet on the shore no pearls there be : 



For fortune varies ebb and flow, 

 And with the waves' monotony ; 



For hopes, like pearls and shells, come in, 

 But with the tide go out to sea. 



