I am living dry and placid now, among encircling mountains.
An old man still remembering the days that used to be.
But I close my eyes and live again those days of sweat and laughter
when we worked the trochus luggers in the western coral sea.
Sailing in a black-hulled lugger with a lookout at the masthead,
you may drift along the coral quays and anchor where you please.
In the glassy lee-side waters of some rocky offshore island,
though the outer reef be trembling under pounding white and sea.
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
You may anchor calm and safely in the shallows over corals
where the waters glimmer peacock in a hundred shifting shades.
You can hear the rippling wavelets tinkle gently on the beaches
and the stays and braces strumming in the southeast trades.
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
To the north of Lizard Island and to the south of Iron Range
in my dreams I am returning to the place where I would be.
To the laughing Taurus tradesmen singing softly in the twilight
To the trocha sluggers anchorage in Princess Charlotte Bay.
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay
La-dee-oh, la-dee-ay