To D. H.
O, Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day;
I wish from my heart I was far away from here, Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.
For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie.
In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet With her babe on her arm, as she came down the street;
And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.
And it's home, dearie, home . . .
O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;
And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king:
With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do.
And it's home, dearie, home . . .
O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie.
For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie.
1878
NOTE: The burthen and the third stanza are old.
