A pounding ocean spraying water high
on a bleak and rocky coast.
Silhouetted trees reaching up to the sky
like the arms of a demented ghost.
A violent kaleidoscope of waves and foam
an incessant and unfriendly roar.
The crew of the Ballyross nearing home
know nothing of what lies in store.
The lighthouse flame doused, no guiding light
the keeper collapsed on his bed.
Already two vessels have sunk out of sight
their crews almost certainly dead.
The men of the Ballyross feel in their hearts
something is clearly not right.
The captain refers back to outdated charts
in the absence of that finger of light.
"All hands on deck," the first mate cries,
trying hard to conceal his fear.
"We'll soon be home, shipmates," he blatantly lies
but the men sense that trouble is near.
No stars, no moon, just a blanket of cloud
and a tide that is running fast.
The hull is being battered and creaking loud,
sails shredding on a bending mast.
The noise is deafening, such an angry sea
crashing down from terrible height.
"I see rocks," one man shouts as he points to the lee.
"All is lost," cries another in fright.
Then disaster strikes, there's a splintering crash
tons of water flood the hold.
Fear is illuminated by a lightning flash
on faces both petrified and cold.
The ship lists to starboard, already a wreck
as men leap or fall into the sea.
Other poor souls that are trapped below deck
fight frantically to try and get free.
In a matter of minutes the Ballyross is no more
sliding silently below the waves.
Not one crew member makes it to the shore
not one life does the good Lord save.
Three ships and their crews perished this night
such a sad and momentous loss.
When daybreak arrives so does the finger of light
that went out for the Ballyross.