Fisherman’s daughter from over the water, The

I've been caught in a net by a dear little pet,
And her eyes are as blue as the deep rolling sea,
She's a Fisherman's daughter, she lives o'er the water,
She's going to be married next Sunday to me.
She's rare as the salmon, there's really no gammon,
As sweet as shrimps newly served up for tea;
My soul she has caught, and a place I have bought,
Where a ray of bright sunshine for ever will be.

She's a Fishermans daughter, she lives o'er the water,
She's going to be married next Sunday to me.
She's a Fishermans daughter, she lives o'er the water,
She's going to be married next Sunday to me.

She's barefooted and pretty, shes lively and witty,
She sings her wild songs to the murmuring sea;
She'll dance on the sands where the Fishermen stands,
And join in the music of a wild swelling glee,
She sits in her boat, and scuds o'er the billows,
And flirts with the spray like a sea-skimming gull,
She laughs at the winds—whose revels are music,
And beats to the time with the stroke of her scull.

The bells they shall ring, and the sailors shall sing,
Y-heave ho! y-heave ho, boys! for time's on the wing,
To see pretty Sarah the pride of the sea.
Who's going to be married next Sunday to me.
Her hair I will deck with a wreath of bright seaweed,
I'll plant in her bosom a blooming moss rose;
She shall go like a fairy with sweet tinkling music,
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,