The curses that rise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
O well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!
And the ships swim happily on
To their haven under the hill:
But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand,
And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!
Break, break, break,