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  christened my brother of old, And a saintly name he bears; They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry stairs, Where the minster-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

In the flush of the hot June prime, O'er sleek flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire, Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the pimping choir? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

When the smoking scud is blown, And the greasy wind-rack lowers, Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling towers; I war with a darkling sea. Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he.

There was never a priest to pray, There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard o' the bay And moored me over the shoal. I rock and I reel and I roll; My four great hammers ply. Could I speak or be still at the Church's will? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.

The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest; But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell, I cry. Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I.