Genre: folk
The boats are home-ward com-ing
a-cross the brim-ming fjord
the nets are full of ström-ming
and all are gay a-board
but home-ward nev-er-more comes my sail-or
the fish-ers huts are lad-en
theyre bak-ing brit-tle bread
what care they that a maid-en
is weep-ing for her dead
that bells will nev-er ring for her wed-ding
O cold the storm as blowing
No winding sheet had he
No parting kiss bestowing
They buried him at sea
With all my heart beside
In the blue tide
strömming- a fish much like a herring
caught in large quantities off the Gulf
of Bothnia Sweden.
