Barry Cornwall

Sing! Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?
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Sing! Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of the mighty Wine,
A roamer is she
O'er wall and tree
And sometimes very good company.

Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.

Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, read more

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

Within the midnight of her hair,
Half-hidden in its deepest deeps.

Within the midnight of her hair,
Half-hidden in its deepest deeps.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.