Poems (Cook)/The Fisher-boat

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THE FISHER-BOAT.
No reefer struts upon her deck—no boatswain pipes her crew,Whose rough and tarry jackets are as often brown as blue;Her sails are torn, her timbers worn, she's but a crazy craft,Yet luck betides her in the gale, and plenty crowns her draught.Let but a foe insult the land that holds their cottage home,And English hearts will spring from out the merry little Foam:What, oh what, oh away they go, the moon is high and bright,God speed the little fisher-boat, and grant a starry night.
No pennant flutters at her mast, no port-holes range her side;A dusky speck—she takes her place upon the midnight tide,While gaily sings some happy boy, "A life upon the sea,With jolly mates, a whiskey-can, and trusty nets for me!"But many an hour of fearful risk she meets upon the wave,That ships of stout and giant form would scarcely care to brave;And many a one with trembling hand will trim the beacon light,And cry "God speed the fisher-boat upon a stormy night!"
We proudly laud the daring ones who cross the pathless main,The shining gems and yellow dust of other climes to gain;We honour those whose blood is with the mingled waters found,Who fight till death to guard the cliffs those waters circle round.'Tis well; but let us not forget the poor and gallant set,Who toil and watch, when others sleep, to cast the heavy net:Their perils are not paid by fame—so trim the beacon light;And cry "God speed the fisher-boat, and grant a starry night!"
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