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Rh I met my mates in the morning (I'll never meet them more!); They came and went in legions that darkened all the shore. And through the floam-flecked offing as far as voice could reach We hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the beach.

The beaches of Lukannon—the winter-wheat so tall— The dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all! The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn! The beaches of Lukannon—the home where we were born!

I meet my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered band. Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land; Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and tame, And still we sing Lukannon—before the sealers came.

Wheel down, wheel down to southward; oh, Gooverooska go! And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; Ere, empty as the shark's egg the tempest flings ashore, The beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more!