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The Doryman Oh, some may sit in their swivel chairs, 'Midst the cities' rush and rumour, And fret o'er the cares of the world affairs And the woes of the poor consumer. But I don't envy such gilded ease; Just give me the salt-soaked ocean breeze, The lift and surge of the white-capped seas, And the deck of a halibut schooner. I want no fuss with the pale-faced cuss, The clerk or piano tuner, Who spend their lives in those stifling hives In the struggle for more mazuma. But give me the windswept ocean's space Where the "flat ones" flop in the dory's waist And the salt scud whips in your upturned fare As you pull for the side of the schooner. Yes, give me a packet that's sound and tight And a skipper with guts to boom her, Up under the heel of the Northern Lights Where the grey seas strive to doom her. Through the grinding ice, where the ground lines freeze, Through the howling gales and the pounding seas For it's into such tranquil spots as these, You must drive with a halibut schooner. We earn what we get, you may lay to that Though we sometimes "pull a boner" For the weather that's brewed off Yakutut It can change like a woman's humour. When the "queer thing" flies to the schooner's truck, We stash our gear and damn our luck, For we've time for naught but to cut and duck For safety, aboard the schooner. And then, when our schooner is safe in port, And we land in a boisterous humour, We thank the gods that our stay is short And wish we were leaving sooner. We're rough and we're coarse and we're loud-What then? We're the salt of the earth; we're dorymen And tomorrow night we'll be off again To the banks in a halibut schooner. From Songs of the Pacific Northwest, Thomas RG oct99
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