| Worthy of a friendship lying underneath a stone,
|
| He was a proper master, all of a ship his own.
|
| For houses and great land many gold in store,
|
| I know he’d spent the whole lot and would again I’m sure.
|
| The blackbirds are singing,
|
| At the breaking of the day,
|
| When poor old Henry Clark,
|
| Left and went away.
|
| For twenty years he scarcely slept upon a proper bed.
|
| Sleepin' with that faint heart inside a weary head,
|
| In the weeks he’d gaze out over Plymouth bay,
|
| To show off all those great girls when the boys are back one day.
|
| The blackbirds are singing,
|
| At the breaking of the day,
|
| When poor old Henry Clark,
|
| Left and went away.
|
| Now his days are over for he was taken ill.
|
| Carried to a workhouse all against his will,
|
| But being just a mortal he lived a life quite tired,
|
| He only lived for one month then his world expired.
|
| The blackbirds are singing,
|
| At the breaking of the day,
|
| When poor old Henry Clark,
|
| Left and went away. |