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Cold February and all is not well |
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There's few will sleep easy this night |
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Down on the dockside, grim silent men standing |
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Under the pale yellow light |
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There's scarcely a murmur and laughter there's none |
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Of whispering there's barely a sound |
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For their thoughts are away, down there in the bay |
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Where it's said that the Lairdsfield is down |
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Bleak February a cruel bitter wind |
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Stirs up the black grimy foam |
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Out there on the sea is no place to be |
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Far better by the fireside and warm |
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But not for the sailor the soft easy chair |
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He's out there earning his bread |
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But tonight there are ten who'll work never again |
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Counted among the drowned dead |
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Dark February a few flakes of snow |
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Drift over bowed heads on the stray |
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By the breakwater side and along by the Gare |
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They wait for the first streaks of day |
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And over the sand-dunes and over the bar |
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See a few feet of keel nothing more |
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Held fast in the sand with all of her hands |
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Barely two miles from the shore |
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Sad February and all is not well |
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There's few will sleep easy this night |
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Down at the dockside, grim silent men standing |
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Under the pale yellow light |
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For down there at Teesmouth |
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The Lairdsfield is drowned |
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And with her every man of her crew |
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Ten men who'll not see the springtime again |
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Nor yet see the cold winter through |
