The Cornish Huer
The Huer is out on the hills away,
And his eyes are fixed on the distant bay,
There are no signs of fish in the offing now,
And he waits with his arm on a pine tree's bough,
Half-rent when the northern winds were up,
And the sea foam whitened the Giant's cup.
They come, they come, that longed-for shoal,
And his voice goes forth in welcome roll
Over rock and reef, over lake and land,
Where huts are hidden in creeks of sand,
And the hardy fishers are at their oars,
And their glad wives watch them from their doors.
Heave ho! Heave ho! The nets are cast,
The shining fish are enclosed at last,
The boats are filled - they row to shore,
Hurrah! Hurrah! They return once more,
A harvest to reap for "one and all."
Hurrah for the Huer who gives the call!
