Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. 
And I walked after, and one could not hear
A word the other said, for wind and sea
That raged and beat and thundered in the night—­
The awfullest, the longest, lightest night
That ever parents had to spend—­a moon
That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 
Ah me! and other men have lost their lads,
And other women wiped their poor dead mouths,
And got them home and dried them in the house,
And seen the driftwood lie along the coast,
That was a tidy boat but one day back. 
And seen next tide the neighbors gather it
To lay it on their fires. 
                         Ay, I was strong
And able-bodied—­loved my work;—­but now
I am a useless hull:  ’tis time I sank;
I am in all men’s way; I trouble them;
I am a trouble to myself:  but yet
I feel for mariners of stormy nights,
And feel for wives that watch ashore.  Ay, ay! 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord
To bring them in:  but I’m no scholar, no;
Book-learning is a world too hard for me: 
But I make bold to say, ’O Lord, good Lord,
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool
To speak to Thee:  but in the Book ’tis writ,
As I hear say from others that can read,
How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea,
And live with fisherfolk, whereby ’tis sure
Thou knowest all the peril they go through. 
And all their trouble. 
                        As for me, good Lord,
I have no boat; I am too old, too old—­
My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife;
My little lasses died so long ago
That mostly I forget what they were like. 
Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. 
I know they went to Thee, but I forget
Their faces, though I missed them sore. 
                                        O Lord,
I was a strong man; I have drawn good food
And made good money out of Thy great sea: 
But yet I cried for them at nights; and now,
Although I be so old, I miss my lads,
And there be many folk this stormy night
Heavy with fear for theirs.  Merciful Lord,
Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride,
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest,
Best sound—­the boat-keels grating on the sand. 
I cannot pray with finer words:  I know
Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn—­
Too old, too old.  They say I want for nought,
I have the parish pay; but I am dull
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 
God save me, I have been a sinful man—­
And save the lives of them that still can work,
For they are good to me; ay, good to me. 
But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit,
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few
That any think to come and draw a chair,
And sit in my poor place and talk a while. 
Why should they come, forsooth?  Only the wind
Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks,
The only thing God made that has a mind
To enter in.’