091 - A sailors prayer

Though my s^Gails be torn and tattered, And the ^Gmast be turned about, Let the ^Cnight wind chill me ^Dto my very s^Goul; Though the s^Gpray might sting my eyes, And the s^Gtars no light provide, Give me ^Cjust another ^Dmorning light to ^Ghold.

And I will not ^Dlie me down, This rain a-r^Gagin', I will not ^Dlie me down in such a ^Gstorm; And if this ^Gnight be unblessed, I s^Chall not take my ^Amrest, Till I ^Dreach another ^Gshore.

Though the ^Gonly water left, Is but ^Gsalt to wound my thirst, I will ^Cdrink the rain that ^Dfalls so steady ^Gdown; And though night's ^Gblindness be my gift, And there be ^Gthieves upon my drift, I will ^Cpraise this fog that ^Dshelters me al^Gong.

Though my ^Gmates be drained and weary, And bel^Gieve their hopes are lost, There's no ^Cneed for their bones ^Don that blackened ^Gbottom; And though death ^Gwaits just off the bow, They shall not ^Ganswer to him now, He shall ^Cstand to face the ^Dmorning witho^Gut us.