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 or cheer you. And did they still make you cry. Did you count the months and years. Or did your teardrops quickly dry. Ah no says 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 on Broadway. Like the first man 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 regards. Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen. Dear old Times Square's favorite 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 danced 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. And we danced to the music. And we dance.