WHEN THE ROSES GO DOWN TO THE SEA
On Gloucester moors the roses
Bloom haunted of the bee;
But there comes an hour of the summer
With the ebb-tide running free,
In a blue day of the summer,
When the roses go down to the sea.
The hands of the little children
Carry them to the shore;
The folk of the City of Fishers
Come out from every door;
They remember the lost captains
That shall come to the port no more.
They remember the lost seamen
Whose names the chaplain reads;
Old English names of Gloucester
Are told like slipping beads,
And the names of the fearless Irish lads,
And Portuguese and Swedes.
They remember the lost fishers
Who shall come no more to the land,
Nor look on the broad blue harbor,
Nor see the Virgin stand,
Our Lady of Good Voyage,
With the sailing-ship in her hand.
They pray to the Friend of fishers
On the Sea of Galilee
For the souls and bodies of seamen
Wherever their voyages be;
And singing they send the roses
On the ebb-tide down to the sea.
And the lost seamen and captains,
Wherever their bodies be,
If ever the sight of a mortal rite
Can move a soul set free,
Are glad of the kindness of Gloucester,
Their old sea-city of Gloucester,
Are moved with the memory of Gloucester,
When the roses go down to the sea.