The beaches of Lukannon⁠—the winter-wheat so tall⁠— The dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all! The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn! The beaches of Lukannon⁠—the home where we were born!

I meet my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered band. Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land; Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and tame, And still we sing Lukannon⁠—before the sealers came.

Wheel down, wheel down to southward; oh, Gooverooska go! And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; Ere, empty as the shark’s egg the tempest flings ashore, The beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more!