I'm weary of the summer lanes, and of the blackbird's lay;
I'm weary of the red cock that crows at dawn of day:
I'm longing for the windy deck, - the blue that fades to gray,
And the dust of the way, my boys, the dust of the way.
The dust of the way that has neither fence nor turning,
The dust of the way that has neither rail nor end,
So it's farewell to you all, for I hear the shipbells call,
Down beside the harbour whence the windy highways trend.

I'm weary of the bustling street, the endless tramp and roar,
I'm weary of the gaudy glare from every ginshop door:
I'm longing for the royal way where never gaslamp glowed,
And the lights on the road, my boys, the lights on the road.
The lights on the road that has never fence nor turning,
The lights on the road that watch o'er us lest we stray:
Round the world and home again, so they watch us o'er the main,
The lamps that hang for mariners for ever and a day.

I'm weary of the weary winds that, mazed from off the main,
Go gasping down the stifling street and up the wooded lane:
I'm longing for the smell and sound of sea and salt and spray,
And the winds on the way, my boys, the winds on the way.
The winds on the way that has neither fence nor turning,
The winds on the way that has neither rail nor end:
So it's farewell to you all, for I hear the shipbells call
Down beside the harbour whence the windy highways trend.