I ’m on the sea! I ’m on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go.

Sing! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of the mighty Wine, A roamer is she O’er wall and tree And sometimes very good company.

I said that I loved the wise proverb, Brief, simple and deep; For it I’d exchange the great poem That sends us to sleep.

The sweetest noise on earth, a woman’s tongue; A string which hath no discord.

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

The sea! The sea! The open sea!, The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Sing! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of the mighty Wine, A roamer is she O'er wall and tree And sometimes very good company.

I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go.

Shadows fall on even the brightest hours.

Most writers steal a good thing when they can, and when 'Tis safely got 'Tis worth the winning. The worst of 't is we now and then detect em, they ever dream that we suspect em.