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Thomas Campion
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Never Weather-Beaten Sail
Never weather-beaten sail
More willing bent to shore
Never tired pilgrims limbs
Affected slumber more
Than my weary sprite now longs
To fly out of my troubled breast
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly sweetest Lord
And take my soul to rest
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly sweetest Lord
And take my soul to rest
Ever blooming are the joys
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Of heav'ns high paradise
Old age deafs not there our ears
Nor vapour dims our eyes
Glory there the sun outshines
Whose beams the blessed only see
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly glorious Lord
And raise my sprite to Thee
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly glorious Lord
And rais my sprite to Thee
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