Thou stern old rock in the ages past,
Thy brow was bleach’d by the warring blast;
But thy wintry toil with the wave is o’er,
And the billows beat thy base no more.
Yet countless as thy sands, old rock,
Are the hardy sons of the Pilgrim stock;
And the tree they rear’d in the days gone by,
It lives, it lives, it lives, and ne’er shall die.
Then rest, old rock, on the sea-beat shore,
Our sires are lull’d by the breaker’s roar;
’Twas here that first their hymns were heard
O’er the startled cry of the ocean bird.
’Twas here they lived, ’twas here they died,
Their forms repose on the green hill-side;
And the tree they rear’d in the days gone by,
It lives, it lives, it lives, and ne’er shall die.
Our Mary Ann.
Oh, fare you well, my own Mary Ann,
Fare you well for a while;
The ship is ready, and the wind is fair,
And I am bound for the sea, Mary Ann.
Oh, didn’t you see your turtile dove,
A sittin’ on yonder pile,
Lamenting the loss of his own true love,
And so am I for my Mary Ann.
Oh, fare you well, &c.
A lobster in a lobster pot,
A blue fish in a brook,
May suffer some—but you know not,
What I do feel for my Mary Ann.
Oh, fare you well, &c.