THE HARBOUR WALL. Robin Madge © 1984 There's a line of future sailors sitting on the harbour wall. Fondly gazing out to sea, That is where they want to be, Only waiting for the time When they handle the fishing lines Or join a merchant ship. But now they play their childhood games, Causing fights and calling names. Maybe prawning off the pier They learn to have the proper fear For the wild and hungry sea. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a line of young apprentices down by the harbour wall. Waiting in the early morn, They were up before the dawn. A schooner's coming with the tide, The bridegrooms off to join the bride For they're deep-water bound. They'll no longer be delayed, Their marriage with the sea is made, Outward bound to learn the ropes, But will it meet their fondest hopes. They'll call them sailors now. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a line of shore-leave sailors walking past the harbour wall. Six long weeks they've been away, Up and down through Biscay's bay, Making harbour none too soon, Slipping in mid-afternoon, They're out upon the town. Heading for the nearest bar, The Bell, the London or the Star, Soon they're getting pretty tight, And who knows where they'll spend the night, Or even if they care. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a line of anxious faces all along the harbour wall. The lifeboat is out there somewhere In answer to a distress flare. Rowing hard into the night In answer to a sailor's plight, Or will it be in vain. Will the lifeboat save the day ? The watchers stare into the spray Which rushes inshore from the night, And out there is just one small light. The watchers stand and pray. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a crowd of dancing people down by the harbour wall. Yankee Jack is home from sea, His concertina on his knee, Singing songs and telling tales Of ships and men, of storms and gales. Tradition's handed round. Shanty songs about Cape Horn, Songs of leaving in the morn, Valparaiso, Rio Grand. His hair so white, his face so tanned, And still they ask for more. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a row of salty sailors leaning on the harbour wall. Gazing steadfast out to sea, Their eyes are moving restlessly, Their minds are on an older scene When sail was king, before the steam; They're living in the past. But still they man the hobbler's boat Just to keep themselves afloat, Passing lines from ship to shore, Helping every coaster moor, Just three men and a dog. For the sea it is their heritage, the sea is in their blood. There's a row of ghosts of sailors leaning on the harbour wall. The old men all have passed away, The ships are built of steel today, Diesel engines, radar masts, Times are changing fast But the memories linger on. The weekend sailor now abounds Out upon the fishing grounds. He sails for pleasure and for fun, For when all is said and all is done, The sea is in our blood. For the sea it is our heritage, the sea is in our blood. Yes, the sea it is our heritage, the sea is in our blood.

One Monday morning in the month of May, One Monday morning in the month of May, I thought I heard the Old Man say, "The Rosabella will sail today." CH. And I'm going on board the Rosabella, I'm going on board the Rosabella, I'm going on board, right down to board The saucy Rosabella. She's a deep-water ship with a deep-water crew, She's a deep-water ship with a deep-water crew, You can stick to the coast but I'll be damned if we do On board the Rosabella. All around Cape Horn in the month of May, All around Cape Horn in the month of May, All around Cape Horn is a bloody long way On board the Rosabella. Them Bowry girls will make me grieve, Them Bowry girls will make me grieve, They've spent all my money, they'll make me leave On board the Rosabella. One Monday morning in the month of May, One Monday morning in the month of May, I thought I heard the Old Man say, "The Rosabella will sail today."

I now sing "time" in the chorus but when this was recorded I sang "trip". Well I've spent all my life within sight of the sea. A-ferrying the limestone has been the life for me, A-ferrying the limestone from out across the sea, And bringing it back for burning. CH. And it's one last time off to the Gower coast, One last time to fetch the stone to roast, One last time off to the Gower coast, And home again in the morning. Time there was when it was a steady trade, Sail across to Gower and anchor in a slade, Digging at the cliff-face for a cargo ready made For the hold of a slim polacca. All along the coastline the kilns would burn away, All along the cliff-top, near one to every bay, Everywhere a boat could land and safely get away, Bringing the stone for burning. Beach her on the foreshore near the end of the slack, Unload the lumps of limestone to the waiting donkey's backs, Watch them climb the cliff-face by a narrow twisting track, Float off with the next high water. Well I've spent all my life within sight of the sea. A-ferrying the limestone has been the life for me, A-ferrying the limestone from out across the sea, And bringing it back for burning.

What now, the man of leisure ? You've just retired from work today, You've taken home your last week's pay. What will you do now with your time ? Is idleness now such a crime ? High adventure, full of zest, Or just stagnate like all the rest ? What now, the man of leisure ? What now, the man of leisure ? They took away your job last year And left you with no course to steer. No prospect of a job to come, Suburbia becomes the slum. Your stress brings on the family row, You live the present tensely now. What now, the man of leisure ? What now, the man of leisure ? Out of work since you left school, A victim of statistic's rule. Go and get out on your bike; Many times you've heard the like. Out of work and out of luck, The epitaph with which you're stuck. What now, the man of leisure ? What now, the man of leisure ? What does the future hold for you ? Employment for a select few, Education for the rest On how to spend their lives for best. "The dignity of labour's dead." "Dignity ?". "That's what they said." What now, the man of leisure ? What now, the man of leisure ? What now ?

I work at the ropewalk every day, Over and under and over, I've a fine situation with a view of the bay. Over and under and over, I work at the splicing, the job most don't like. Over and under and over, You should see how I handle my old marlinspike. Over and under and over. CH. Stretch the rope tight, stretch the rope tight. Over and under and over, Stretch the rope tight, stretch the rope tight. Over and under and over. Sometimes I take a turn on the ropewalk, Over and under and over, With a handful of hemp, backwards we walk, Over and under and over, But mostly I sit here a-splicing away, Over and under and over, For a craftsman like me you don't meet every day. Over and under and over, I've a rope for the cutter that's down on the slip, Over and under and over, And one for the schooner whose anchor's a-trip. Over and under and over, I've rope here for halliards and rope here for sheets, Over and under and over, For tying up reef points and belaying to cleats. Over and under and over, I've a rope for the brewer to use on his dray, Over and under and over, And one for the farmer who's carting home hay. Over and under and over, I've a rope for the carrier, who's out on the road, Over and under and over, To tie up his parcels and tie down his load. Over and under and over, I've a rope for the vicar for his belfry tower, Over and under and over, I sit here and splice away hour after hour. Over and under and over, I make ropes for sailors and landsmen alike, Over and under and over, You should see how I handle my old marlinspike. Over and under and over, I've rope here for me and a rope here for you, Over and under and over, And a date with the hangman, I'll deal with that too. Over and under and over and under and over and under and over.

CH. Brass and iron, smoke and fire, Flames are rising ever higher. Brass and iron, smoke and fire, Watch the sparks fly to the sky. If you come walking down our street You'll hear the hammer's steady beat. The sound, the smell, the light, the heat, The foundry it is working. There's a lad that stands by the foundry door, Drawn by the smell and the bellows roar. He comes to watch the metal pour And watch the sparks go dancing. The pattern maker stands alone, Gives his chisel one last hone, Then turns away from the grinding stone To carve the wooden master. The moulders work away with sand. Around the pattern it is rammed, Then on one side it's put to stand To await the molten metal. It's here are made those cogs and gears That serve the miller through the years. The caster stands in the heat that sears To pour the molten metal. If work at the foundry you should try You'll find it makes you awful dry, And in the boozer by-and-by You'll drink away your wages.

I may have changed the words a bit now. I had a dream the other night. Lowlands, lowlands away my John. I had a dream the other night. My lowlands away. I dreamt my love came to my bedside. I dreamt my love came to my bedside. And she was dressed all in white. And she was dressed all in white. All dressed in white like some fair bride. All dressed in white like some fair bride. Then she came close by my bedside. Then she came close by my bedside. She turned away, no word was said. Lowlands, lowlands away my John. 'Twas then I knew my love was dead. Lowland, my lowlands away.