Off To The Fishing Ground

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore Blowing over a silver sea, There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide That calls enticingly; The mist of dawn has taken flight To the dim horizon's bound, And with wide sails set and eager hearts We're off to the fishing ground. Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings Like a great sea-harp afar! We whistle its wild notes back to it As we cross the harbor bar. Behind us there are the homes we love And hearts that are fond and true, And before us beckons a strong young day On leagues of glorious blue. Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out, A song of the orient sea! We are the heirs of its tingling strife, Its courage and liberty. Sing as the white sails cream and fill, And the foam in our wake is long, Sing till the headlands black and grim Echo us back our song! Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing To wake ere the night be done And steer the course that our fathers steered In the path of the rising sun. The wind and welkin and wave are ours Wherever our bourne is found, And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep When we're off to the fishing ground.