Woe, says the sailor, down by the shore
Woe, for my comrades are no more
The ship like a stick was flung by a wave
And violently carried brave men to their grave
Did ever we ask for a fight with the flood?
Or beckon to her to come and draw blood?
No, but her treatment was that of a child
Yet for our great love we were sorely beguiled
Ask of the fishes and they will decree
Ask of the monsters which roam in the sea
Did once we sin or do wrong in her sight?
Did we the hand which gave bountifully bite?
Yet here are the bones which the sad story tell
The bones of a good man rest with a shell
Men never buried under the clay
Not given the option to die in a fray
Woe for the hapless who died in a flash
Woe to the sea which caused them to crash
Woe to the man who hears my lament
But most woe to me, whose spirit is spent