A SLUMBER SONG

FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

Furl your sail, my little boatie; Here 憇 the haven, still and deep, Where the dreaming tides, in-streaming, Up the channel creep. See, the sunset breeze is dying; Hark, the plover, landward flying, Softly down the twilight crying; Come to anchor, little boatie, In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie, Roaring waves are white with foam; Ships are striving, onward driving, Day and night they roam. Father 憇 at the deep-sea trawling, In the darkness, rowing, hauling, While the hungry winds are calling,-- God protect him, little boatie, Bring him safely home!

Not for you, my little boatie, Is the wide and weary sea; You 憆e too slender, and too tender, You must rest with me. All day long you have been straying Up and down the shore and playing; Come to port, make no delaying! Day is over, little boatie, Night falls suddenly.

Furl your sail, my little boatie; Fold your wings, my tired dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing Safely o 抏 r your rest are glowing, All the night, my little boatie, Harbour-lights of love.