TIDE be runnin' the great world over:
⁠T'was only last June month I mind that we
Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the lover
⁠So everlastin' as the sea.

Heer's the same little fishes that sputter and swim,
⁠Wi' the moon's old glim on the grey, wet sand;
An' him no more to me nor me to him
⁠Than the wind goin' over my hand.