| The island it is silent now
|
| But the ghosts still haunt the waves
|
| And the torch lights up a famished man
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| Who fortune could not save
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| Did you work upon the railroad
|
| Did you rid the streets of crime
|
| Were your dollars from the white house
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| Were they from the five and dime
|
| Did the old songs taunt or cheer you
|
| And did they still make you cry
|
| Did you count the months and years
|
| Or did your teardrops quickly dry
|
| Ah, no, says he, 'twas not to be On a coffin ship I came here
|
| And I never even got so far
|
| That they could change my name
|
| Thousands are sailing
|
| Across the western ocean
|
| To a land of opportunity
|
| That some of them will never see
|
| Fortune prevailing
|
| Across the western ocean
|
| Their bellies full
|
| Their spirits free
|
| They’ll break the chains of poverty
|
| And they’ll dance
|
| In Manhattan’s desert twilight
|
| In the death of afternoon
|
| We stepped hand in hand on Broadway
|
| Like the first man on the moon
|
| And «The Blackbird"broke the silence
|
| As you whistled it so sweet
|
| And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps
|
| I danced up and down the street
|
| Then we said goodnight to Broadway
|
| Giving it our best regards
|
| Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen
|
| Dear old Times Square’s favorite bard
|
| Then we raised a glass to JFK
|
| And a dozen more besides
|
| When I got back to my empty room
|
| I suppose I must have cried
|
| Thousands are sailing
|
| Again across the ocean
|
| Where the hand of opportunity
|
| Draws tickets in a lottery
|
| Postcards we’re mailing
|
| Of sky-blue skies and oceans
|
| From rooms the daylight never sees
|
| Where lights don’t glow on Christmas trees
|
| But we dance to the music
|
| And we dance
|
| Thousands are sailing
|
| Across the western ocean
|
| Where the hand of opportunity
|
| Draws tickets in a lottery
|
| Where e’er we go, we celebrate
|
| The land that makes us refugees
|
| From fear of Priests with empty plates
|
| From guilt and weeping effigies
|
| And we dance |