Tide be runnin' the great world over:'Twas only last June month I mind that
Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the
So everlastin' as the sea.
Heer's the same little fishes that sputter an swim,
Wi' the moon's old glim on the grey, wet sand;
An' him no more to me mor me to
Than the wind goin' over my hand.
