Fishwives of Staithes.
Beneath unearthly troubled skies,
An army of our women rise.
To search out the horizons wave,
A Coble of fish brings home the brave.
Arms folded tight, tongues a' wag..
They hope, they sew, fold dusty rag.
A day is full of worries too,
The rocks had taken a Schooner crew.
And when the catch is sold,
Can eat a crust without the mold.
Their husbands work be done,
Until next rising of the sun.
Her apron crisp and clean,
Is more than it would seem.
And the wagging tongues of wives,
Gut fish faster, than tempered knives.