With the earth for support, we are ready to leave
When the tide is high and salts’s in the air,
And the hour has long beeen appointed.
We are lulled by the sea, rocking gently to sleep
Wayward children in their mother’s care.

The waves will toil in the sweat of their brow,
Slashing to ribbons the sides of our vessel,
Our patient engines will make the months grow
From the rhythm of the quietest seconds.

There is only smooth water around, what bliss!
Not a soul for miles around, whole miles...
Grown used to being rocked to sleep like this,
Getting used to the comfort of homes takes a while.

We work with no days off here, no evening out.
At sea we’ve plenty of things to do, less devious.
We forget the girlfriends who care for us -
The ones we don’t always care about -
May these sins of omission be forgiven us!

No, not true! We pine for them on the orlop,
In our dreams their names begin to unroll.
Here what we’re after isn’t some trollop,
Not some happiness, only the fish shoal.

There is only smooth water around, what bliss!
Neither fences nor walls, room enough to go dancing!
Being used to being lulled to sleep like this,
Growing used to the comfort of home gets taxing.

Some will say we are after the money it pays.
Anyhow, this isn’t the place for rich pickings.
We are after the sea for the sake of the waves
Which we never forget years later.
 

When arriving from elsewhere’s alien spring,
We are headed for the battered old pier,
The gates of the nation swing open to bring
Each sailor to his native here.

Nothing but smooth water roundabout, what bliss!
Neither fences nor walls, room enough to go dancing!
Being used to being lulled to sleep like this,
Growing used to the comfort of home gets taxing.

Every time we set sail, we’re wed to the earth,
Most beloved, most faithful, most fair,
To return at the hour appointed...
Even rocked by the sea, gently lulled on the berth,
Wayward children in their mother’s care.

The lighthouse can’t blink as it stands to its feet,
It just stares at us, the dumb lout.
It’s just seen our trawler reversing its speed,
The propellers going full out.

Even riding at anchor is something like bliss,
Gently lulled by the earth till one’s soul is humming.
Those who return from the storms are used to all this,
Getting used to our next homecoming.