The wind may beat our backs with cold,
The rain may stain our brow but,
We're just four leagues away from port,
We'll not surrender now.
O' curse you scornful ocean,
And a pox upon this storm,
May the sharks be choked by bodies,
Should we fail to see the morn.
O' Triton carry fleet my words,
I've wife and daughter fair,
We beg your vengeful father that,
This vessel he may spare.
But what good is a mortal's curse,
Against the likes of God,
I s'pose that in His wisdom,
I should drown, a wretched sod.
I've lived my life an honest man,
That plies the seven seas,
And I s'pose I ought be thankful,
For my time and all I've seen.
No comments:
Post a Comment