| Cold February and all is not well
|
| There’s few will sleep easy this night
|
| Down on the dockside, grim silent men standing
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| Under the pale yellow light
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| There’s scarcely a murmur and laughter there’s none
|
| Of whispering there’s barely a sound
|
| For their thoughts are away, down there in the bay
|
| Where it’s said that the Lairdsfield is down
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| Bleak February a cruel bitter wind
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| Stirs up the black grimy foam
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| Out there on the sea is no place to be
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| Far better by the fireside and warm
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| But not for the sailor the soft easy chair
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| He’s out there earning his bread
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| But tonight there are ten who’ll work never again
|
| Counted among the drowned dead
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| Dark February a few flakes of snow
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| Drift over bowed heads on the stray
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| By the breakwater side and along by the Gare
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| They wait for the first streaks of day
|
| And over the sand-dunes and over the bar
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| See a few feet of keel nothing more
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| Held fast in the sand with all of her hands
|
| Barely two miles from the shore
|
| Sad February and all is not well
|
| There’s few will sleep easy this night
|
| Down at the dockside, grim silent men standing
|
| Under the pale yellow light
|
| For down there at Teesmouth
|
| The Lairdsfield is drowned
|
| And with her every man of her crew
|
| Ten men who’ll not see the springtime again
|
| Nor yet see the cold winter through |