And venture a voyage they know not where,—

To fly away and be free!

 The tide runs out of the harbour,— The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,— And the little ships rocking at anchor, Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand, To rest in the lee of the high hill land,— To hold their haven and stay!

The tide runs out of the harbour,—

The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,—

And the little ships rocking at anchor,

Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning

To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand,

To rest in the lee of the high hill land,—

To hold their haven and stay!

 My heart goes round with the vessels,— My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,— And the turn o' the tide passes through it, In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling At morn, to range where the far waves foam, At night, to a harbour in love's true home, With the hearts that understand!

My heart goes round with the vessels,—

My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,—

And the turn o' the tide passes through it,

In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling

At morn, to range where the far waves foam,

At night, to a harbour in love's true home,

With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.

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