The island, it is silent now,
But the ghosts still haunt the waves,
And the torch lights up a famished man,
Who fortune could not save,
Did you work upon the railroad?
Did you rid the streets of crime?
Were your dollars from the White House?
Were they from the five and dime?

Did the old songs taunt and cheer you?
Or did they still make you cry?
Did you count the months and years,
Or did your teardrops quickly dry?
"Ah, no," said he, "twas not to be
On a coffin ship I came here,
And I never even got so far,
That they could change my name."

Thousands are sailing across the western ocean,
To a land of opportunity that some of them will never see,
Fortune prevailing across the western ocean,
Their bellies full, their spirits free,
They'll break the chains of poverty,
And they'll dance.

In Manhattan's desert twilight,
In the death of afternoon,
We stepped hand in hand down Broadway,
Like the first men on the moon,
And the blackbird broke the silence,
As you whistled it so sweet,
And in Brendan Behan's footsteps,
I danced up and down the street.

Then we said goodnight to Broadway,
Giving it our best regard,
Tipped our hats to Mr. Cohan
Dear old Times Square's favourite bard,
Then we raised a glass to JFK,
And a dozen more besides,
When I got back to my empty room,
I suppose I must have cried.

Thousands are sailing again across the ocean,
Where the hand of opportunity draws tickets in a lottery,
Postcards we're mailing of sky blue skies and oceans,
From rooms the daylight never sees,
Where lights don't glow on Christmas trees,
And we dance to the music and we dance.

Thousands are sailing across the western ocean,
Where the hand of opportunity draws tickets in a lottery,
Where e'er we go, we celebrate the land that makes us refugees,
From fear of priests with empty plates,
From guilt and weeping effigies,
Still we dance to the music and we dance.