Page:Twa weavers.pdf/5

5 Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl.

But when the wind blows off the shore,

Oh, sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

Utawa tide, this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon:

Saint of this green isle, hear our prayer,

Grant us cool heavens and favouring air,

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.



