| the big ships sail up, the big ships sail down
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| a great northern river
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| funnels of red, funnels of black
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| banded with yellow and silver
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| bringing in cargos of oil and wood
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| taking home girders of steel and pick iron
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| oh, coloured faces, flaxom old places
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| high from the sternposts are flying
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| down on the docks, down on the wharves
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| lofty grain standing
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| stevedores working and rivermen shouting
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| crews making ready for London
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| ropes black and tarry
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| chains rusty and red
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| lay among timber and bollards and packing
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| seagulls wheel over wild river cats
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| down on the jetties are watching
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| nights by the docks, pack’d smoky pubs
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| plenty of shouting and swearing
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| heavy brown ale, thick muddy stout,
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| and nobody’s caring
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| a lass starts to warble a popular song
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| they’re throwing her pennies and pieces of silver
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| closing time called, silence then falls
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| on a great northern river |