The white-winged traders, all about,
Fare o'er that bar to win:
But this one cries, I cannot out,
And that, I may not in.
For thy dire woe, forlorn Padstow,
What remedy may be?
Not all the brine of thy sad eyne
Will float thy ships to sea.
The sighs that from thy seamen pass
Might set a fleet a-sail,