Rhymes of Old Plimouth

by Herbert Randall

An’ the old blue shirt folded in at the neck;

I love the slip o’ the greasy coat,

An’ the feel o’ the brine on my face an’ throat,

An’ the things I hears, an’ the things I see,

When the skipper is drivin’ his helm hard-a-lee,

Wall—I love the tune, an’ I love the view,

But I don’t guess much it’s consarnin’ you.

But the best of all is the smell I get,

When the tides is out an’ the flats is wet;

An’ I love to think when the tides come in