Bloomington Herald

POETRY.

THE FISHER-BOAT.
By Eliza F. Cook,

No reefer struts upon her deck—
No boatswain pipes her crew,
Whose rough and tarry jackets are
As often black as blue.
Her sails are torn, her timbers worn,
She's but a crazy craft;
Yet luck betides her in the gale,
And plenty crowns her draught.
Let but a foe insult the land
That holds their cottage home,
And English hearts will spring from out
The merry little foam.
What, ho! what, ho! away they go,
The moon is high and bright,
God speed the little fisher-boat,
And grant a starry night.
No pennant flutters at her mast,
No port-holes range her side,
A dusky speck—she takes her place
Upon the mid-night tide,
While gaily sings some happy boy,
"A life upon the sea,
With jolly mates, a whiskey can,
And trusty nets for me."
But many an hour of fearful risk,
She meets upon the wave,
The ships of stout and giant form,
Would scarcely care to brave;
And many a one with trembling hand
Will trim the beacon light,
And cry "Good speed the fisher-boat,
Upon a stormy night."
We proudly laud the daring ones
Who cross the pathless main,
The shining gems and yellow dust
Of other climes to gain:
We honor those whose blood is with
The mingled waters found,
Who fight till death to guard the cliffs
Those waters circle round.
'Tis well; but let us not forget
The poor and gallant set,
Who toil and watch when others sleep,
To cast the heavy net.
Their perils are not paid by fame—
So trim the beacon light,
And cry "God speed the fisher-boat,
And grant a starry night."