You see these work boots in my hands, they'll probably fit ye now my son, Take them, they're a gift from me, why don't you try them on? It would do your old man good to see you walking in these boots one day, And take your place among the men who work upon the slipway.
These dead man's boots, though they're old and curled, When a feller needs a job and a place in the world, And it's time for a man to put down roots, And walk to the river in his old man's boots.
He said, \"I'm nearly done and asking this, that ye do one final thing for me! You're barely but a sapling, and you think that you're a tree. If ye need a seed to prosper, ye must first put down some roots. Just one foot then the other in these dead man's boots.\"
These dead man's boots know their way down the hill, They could walk there themselves, and they probably will. There's a place for ye there to sink your roots, And take a walk down the river in these dead man's boots.
I said, \"Why in the Hell would I do that? And why would I agree?\" When his hand was all that I'd received, as far as I remember. It's not as if he'd spoiled me with his kindness up to then ye see. I'd a plan of me own and I'd quit this place when I came of age September.
These dead man's boots know their way down the hill, They can walk there themselves, and they probably will. I'd plenty of choices, and plenty other routes, And he'd never see me walking in these dead man's boots.
What was it made him think I'd be happy ending up like him? When he'd hardly got two halfpennies left, or a broken pot to piss in. He wanted this same thing for me, was that his final wish? He said, \"What the hell are ye gonna do?\" I said, \"Anything but this!\"
These dead man's boots know their way down the hill, They can walk there themselves and they most likely will. But they won't walk with me ‘cos I'm off the other way, I've had it up to here, I'm gonna have my say. When all ye've got left is that cross on the wall? I want nothing from you, I want nothing at all. Not a pension, nor a pittance, when your whole life is through, Get this through your head, I'm nothing like you, I'm done with all the arguments, there'll be no more dispute, And ye'll die before ye see me in your dead man's boots.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ And Yet
This town, this stain on the sunrise, Disguised in the mist this morning, It's 8AM, a seagull shouts a sailor's warning.
This sky, this bend in the river, Slows down and delivers me, the tide rolls back, And all my memories fade to black,
And yet, and yet...I'm back.
This town has a strange magnetic pull, Like a homing signal in your skull, And you sail by the stars of the hemisphere, Wondering how in the Hell did ye end up here? It's like an underground river, or a hidden stream, That flows through your head, and haunts your dreams, And you stuffed those dreams in this canvas sack, And there's nothing round here that the wide world lacks,
And yet, and yet...You're back.
Some nights I'd lie on the deck and I'd stare at the turning of the stars, Those constellations hanging up there from the cables and the rigging, I'd wonder if she saw the same, or managed to recall my name, But why would she ever think of me? Some boy she loved who fled to sea? And why waste time debating whether she'd be waiting for the likes of me?
So ye drift into port with the scum of the seas, To the dance halls and the brothels where you took your ease! And the ship's left the dock but you're half past caring, And ye haven't got a clue whose bed you're sharing. And your head's like a hammer on a bulkhead door, And it feels like somebody might have broken your jaw, And there's bloodstains and glass all over the floor, And ye swear to God ye'll drink no more, And yet, and yet.
In truth, it's too late to find her, Too late to remind her at some garden gate, Where a servant tells me I should wait, And perhaps a door's slammed in my face, My head must be in outer space, And yet, and yet, Before the sun has set, Before the sea, There may be something else that's waiting for, The likes of me.