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Out from the shore where the land meets the sea,
Rocks are piled up where the wharves used to be;
Some still in their cradle defying the waves,
Preserve a creation that our forefathers made.
On the beach lies the hull of an old fishing boat,
It's been quite a while since that skiff was afloat;
Aged by the weather and bleached by the sun,
Its workdays all over and a long rest begun.
And if old boats could talk what a tale they would tell,
Of the brothers, the sons and the fathers;
Carved into time with a tear for each line,
Shed by the mothers and daughters,
Of the brave men who sailed on the waters.
There's a broken propeller and a flywheel nearby,
Wedged in the sand from the wind and the tide;
An old yellow dory washed up on the shore,
That never will sail those blue waters no more.
And if old boats could talk what a tale they would tell,
Of the brothers, the sons and the fathers;
Carved into time with a tear for each line,
Shed by the mothers and daughters,
Of the brave men who sailed on the waters.
Relics collected from the people around,
Fill the Bayside Museum in our sleepy town;
There's pictures and posters of all things that float,
From great ocean freighters to small fishing boats.
And if old boats could talk what a tale they would tell,
Of the brothers, the sons and the fathers;
Carved into time with a tear for each line,
Shed by the mothers and daughters,
Of the brave men who sailed on the waters.
Those brave men who sailed on the waters.
Those brave men who sailed on the waters.
Those brave men,
Who sailed on,
The waters.
