Away and to the westward
There's a place a man can go,
Where the fishin's always easy,
And they've got no ice or snow.

Chorus:
But I'll haul down the sails
Where the bays come together,
And bide away the days
On the hills of Isle Au Haut.

Now the Plymouth girls are fine,
They put their hearts in your hand,
And the Plymouth boys are able,
First-class sailors, every man.

Now the trouble with old Martir,
You don't try her in a trawler,
For those Bay of Biscay swells
Can roll your head right off your shoulder.

Now the winters drive you crazy,
And the fishin's hard and slow,
You're a damn fool if you stay,
But there's no better place to go.

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