The winds are in the rigging high,
And the wicked seas are running wild,
It’s a sailor’s curse that he face the worst,
And the ghost that’s by his side,
Has conquered them in passing,
Both the nameless and the lasting,
Though the dreadful chill of an portent ill,
now begs him turn aside;
Have the winds forsaken freedom?
Is the truth to be denied?
Has an omen taken passage,
On the swift and raging tide?
It’s a stinging spray that blinds his eye,
And a wretched gloom that makes him cry,
There’s a whispered tale of a demon gale,
That taunts the Brigand’s pride;
With curse upon the questing,
She sails the hour of testing,
And her cargo hold is filled with gold,
For which the truth has died;
Has a heart once wed to passion,
Become the Devil’s bride?
Is there evil now abounding,
In the waters you have plied?
With a cape both soaked with salt and fear,
From the sea and dirge that draweth near,
Not a man aboard will curse the horde,
And heave it o’er the side;
With blind eye turned to warning,
As blood-red breaks the morning,
‘Till the look-out’s cry is smothered by,
The groan of her timbered pride;
Like the toil of bitter journey,
That lines a weathered brow,
So the sweat of ancient hardships,
Now glistens on her prow…..
Though a soul despair with sweat and tear,
And a heart be gripped with icy fear,
Not a man in doubt will e’er sing out,
And tempt the scorn reply,
‘Tis simpler yield than waver,
To a course that curries favor,
And a misspent youth, the ring of truth,
Is seeking to deny;
But the ship is filled with booty,
And the crew is filled with lust,
And the hour of judgment knows them,
Both wicked and the just.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.