When our ship gets home again, after cruising up and down,
Where the old, familiar hills crowd above the little town,
Oh, we'll reef the weary sails in the shelter of the bay,
And we'll find it just the same as the hour we went away
With the steeple of the church through the tree tops peering out,
With same accustomed streets, and the friends we knew, about.

Oh, we'll sit before the hearth and we'll smoke a pipe or so,
And we'll have a pot of ale at the inn before we go,
And we'll kiss the prettiest girls, and we'll tell the children tales
Of the countries that we've seen, of the shipwrecks and the gales,
Till the cargo's battened down, and we're outward bound once more
While the sea goes rushing back to the far, receding shore.

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.