A SONG OF THE NORTH SEA 



From the Arctic zone to Dover, 

 Surging sullen, north and south; 

 Past the Shetlands and the Orkneys 

 And the yellow Humber's mouth; 



Meeting many sluggish currents 

 And the tidal sweep of Thames, 

 Past the net of eastern islands 

 That in summer gleam like gems ; 



Flooding Dogger Bank and Goodwins, 

 Skirting France's fertile shores; 

 Belgium, Holland, Prussia, Denmark, 

 Up to Norway's rugged doors 



Runs the grey North Sea eternal: 

 And upon its savage surge 

 Sons of men are ever righting, 

 To the melancholy dirge. 



For these sons of men are toilers 

 Of the solemn northern deep, 

 And on ruthless stretch of ocean 

 Rigid battle-station keep. 



Theirs to work in sorrowed patience, 

 And to struggle on in strife ; 

 Theirs to sow but seldom harvest, 

 In the pitch and toss of life. 



May the laws that govern fairness 

 May the God in whom we trust 

 Judge the reaper of the Dogger, 

 When his gallant bones are dust, 



