I weave the strands of the grey rope,
I weave with sorrow, I weave with hope,
I weave in youth, love, and regret,
I weave life into the net.
When I was a child the care began.
And now my child shall be a man;
When I am old and my fingers shake,
There'll be nets to mend, and more nets to make.
And life's a weary and heavy thing,
And there's no rest in the evening;
And long or light though the labour be,
It's a life to the net, and nets to the sea.
