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There's an old car wreck rustin' where my place used to be,
My stage it has crumbled and washed out to sea;
My old skiff is left high and dry on the shore,
There's no place for old fellers like me anymore.
My youngsters have all took their arse in their hands,
They're chasing the rainbow up on the mainland;
Most of my shipmates have withered and died,
And, like them, no more do I sail with the tide.
There's a big cabin cruiser where the schooners once moored,
She's got ne'er bit of canvas or a killick on board;
And the steamer don't come like she used to before,
There's no use for steamers or me anymore.
I can't find a herring or a salt fish to soak,
Everything's plastic, not one piece of oak;
Not one mesh of linnet or a needle of twine,
Like all us old fellers, 'twas all left behind.
Oh, you can't cut a lunger without a permit,
There's no scull and oars, not a tole pin nor whip;
Neither punt in the harbour, codtrap or trawl,
Old fellers and trap skiffs don't matter at all.
Sometimes I get lonesome for the ocean again,
To hoist up the canvas and sail with the wind;
But it's only a fancy, a past memory,
And there's nothing but fancy for old fellers like me.
The graveyard is full of people I knew,
Some fine Irish sailors, some hangashores, too;
Gone down to the earth or maybe to sea,
'Cause the Lord has a use for old fellers like me.
It's hard to accept when you're just an old man,
And you feel like a stranger in your native land;
And your body is feeble but you still have your mind,
And you're just an old feller who's outlived his time....
And you're just an old feller who's outlived his time.
