Our Padre

    Our padre is an old sky pilot,

        Severely now they’ve clipped his wings,

    But still the flagstaff in the Rect’ry garden

        Points to Higher Things.

    Still he has got a hearty handshake;

        Still he wears his medals and a stole;

    His voice would reach to Heaven, and make

        The Rock of Ages Roll.

    He’s too sincere to join the high church

        Worshipping idols for the Lord,

    And, though the lowest church is my church,

        Our padre’s Broad.

    Our padre is an old sky pilot,

        He’s tied a reef knot round my heart,

    We’ll be rocked up to Heaven on a rare old tune—

        Come on—take part!

CHORUS

  (Sung) Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore!

        Heed not the raging billow, bend to the oar!

    Bend to the oar before the padre!

        Proud, with the padre rowing stroke!

    Good old padre! God for the services!

        Row like smoke!