Boats of Stone

Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?
Did you see them sailing south to honor Washington? 
From these silent quarries now so overgrown,
Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?

Tell me, Mister, did you see the city halls?
Did you carve the marble monuments from humble mountain walls?
And great columns for cathedrals we have known?
Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?

To a nation finally free in her new prosperity,
Came a building boom for granite in the nineteenth century,
And the finest source alone for the solitary stone
Lay sleeping in the quarries of New England.

The need for public buildings of a new magnificence,
Gave Vermont and all her marble a new significance,
And the growing need for granite on a monumental scale,
Awoke the tiny island villages of Maine.

Through every season of the year they sailed along the Coast of Fear,
On a downeast course for home you'd see them ride,
Into the rising sun this schooner fleet did run,
Sailing light to make the morning tide.

To many green New Hampshire towns came this fleet of hand-me-downs,
Having spent their buoyant youth on coal and lumber,
They'd all seen better days before the killin' quarry trade,
Now everybody knew their days were numbered.

Up to the loading sheds the leaking hulls would edge,
Ready for the rubble and the good rock,
High above the groaning sledge the shrieking gulls would pledge,
"You'll never make a round trip to this same dock!"

It seems only yesterday, I entered the carving trade
And now I'm so far away from all that I know,
But word came to Italy of good work across the sea,
And you gave your farewell to me for I had to go.

So here, off the coast of Maine, on the island called Hurricane,
I dream I'll see you again when the work gets too slow,
Yes, here under pointed trees with marble and memories
I carve lions and liberties through the long winter snow.

You could see them from the shore always going back for more,
A steady stream of stone to build a nation.
Every capital and fort, the new library of New York,
Every church of every known denomination.

For the mansions of our dreams these humble schooners split their seams,
Like shuttle on the wind they carried on,
Some too cold to feel the granite columns on their keel,
Bound for New York's new Cathedral of Saint John.

To every green New England hill where we no more will hear the drill,
Now the quarry men are still in peaceful slumber,
To every bust and effigy in Boston, New York, and D.C.
And every city curb would be too great to number.

To the hands and to the boats who cut the stones and pulled the ropes,
To the children and their hopes in dark December,
To the labor of the crew, their weary vessel would get through,
We give the credit where it's due and we'll remember.

Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?
Did you see them sailing south to honor Washington?
From these silent quarries now so overgrown,

Tell me, Mister, did you see the city halls?
Did you carve the marble monuments from humble mountain walls?
And great colums (sic) for cathedrals we have known?
Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?
From these silent quarries now so overgrown,
Tell me, Mister, did you see the boats of stone?