There b'aint no fishin’ in the bay, The boats be moored‘ longside the kay, With sails reefed in an’ stawed away, An’ all so calm an’ still —
Excep’ the ripple o’ the tide, An’ gulls awheelin’ up‘ longside The clifts, to where the Church do bide Atop the Flag-staff Hill.
Above the Slip where boats be moored The cottage doors be set abroad, An’ singin’ voices praise the Lord For mercies which endure;
An’ happy childer in the street, Dressed all so vitty, clane, an’ neat, Puts somethin’ in the music sweet It didn’ had before.
Now every fisherman be dressed In shiny suit o’ black for best, As fittin’ to the Day o’ Rest, An’ sign o’ Death to Sin;
The jerseys in the lockers bide, For Sunday knaws its proper pride, An’ likes to show a clane outside To match the heart within.
Mid mornin’, Church bell clangs a call. An’ some do n't take no heed at all, But some goes up the hill to Paul, An’ some to Chapel goes;
Whilst some strolls down upon the kay, An’ sits an’ spits into the say; But all the same, they knaws the Day, An’ doesn’ dirt their clo'es.
But whether Church be right or b'aint, Or Mittin’ Houses make'ee faint, Or whether you'm a solemn saint Or jest a cheerful sinner,
For sartin, not so long by noon, You'll all be playin’ the same tune Wi’ knife an’ fork an’ mebbe spoon, Asettin’ down to dinner.
Then mos'ly us do strawl away Along the clifts that line the bay, Though some prefers a dish o’ tay An’ snooze along the settle;
But whether we'm been far or near, We'm never losted, do n't‘ ee fear. We'm allays home in time to hear The singin’ o’ the kettle.
An’ when the Sun, a lantern red Asinkin’ at the World's mast-head, Goes down, then us goes home to bed: An’ so us ends the Sunday.
For Sunday‘ tis the Day o’ days, When all the fish do as‘ em plaise, While in the little port we prays A banger catch for Monday.
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