On that day, the sailors ran
and every whaler, to a man,
        dreamed of treasures found.

 

The wives all gathered with their kin,
waiting with a murmured din
        for partings from their town.

 

And I there, too, with the rest;
dressed in suits of Sunday best,
        and hats with brims turned down.

 

I stood and watched the flags of mourning
set their sails on seas of warning,
        across the harbor bound.

 

The mists of Nantuck' came alive.
Beliefs from those who would survive
         to wear the golden crown.

 

Such hope was held, on that day
when fickle winds took them away;
        the waves to bash and pound.

 

Every day as weeks passed by
the sea was searched by every eye:
         by woman, by child, by hound.

 

But Death has come to Nantuck' early
waving hands of bone, so pearly
         to make the sailors drown.

 

The sorrow of those who lost is deep.
Gone have they to a watery keep,
         and never to hallowed ground.

 

And the masthead rises from the fog,
the sails in tatters, brown from bog,
         the scraps piled in a mound.

 

So the weeping, huddled masses
shiver and watch as the ghost ship passes
         and vanishes
              with nary a sound.