| lyric | The Faythe fishing craft on the twelfth of November
Their finny thread meshes they spread o’er the deep:
Serene were the heavens, full well I remember,
The wind in its cavern was buried in sleep.
Tranquil the sea was, no greater our pleasure,
SAve that of religion, blest heavently treasure.
Ere the midtime of night loudly roared beyond measure
A tempest whose violence caused any to weep.
A red bolt of Jove o’er our heads burst asunder;
Heaven’s bosom seemed open; astounded each crew;
The sulphuring crash filled all hearts with wonder;
A storm showing presage each pilot well knew.
The dark’ning clouds southward came heavily lowering;
The cataracts of heaven in torrents came pouring;
The winds o’er the ocean were dreadfully roaring;
To shun them, each coast-boat to shore quickly flew.
Not so with us Wexfordmen, awful the dangers,
For we had to brave out the shoals of the Bar,
Unwilling to land on the strand, being all strangers
Though homeward to guide us shone no moon or star.
But the tragical muse fomented devotion;
’Midst the loud crashing elements’ dreadful commotion,
These two Wexford skiffs braved the horrors of ocean
Till the twilight of morning arose from afar.
By morning the fierce howling storm it grew stronger,
Our master cried: ‘Boys, let us push to the shore:
At anchor our light skiffs can ride here no longer.’
So with fore-sail unfurled we scudded before.
But the life-streaming blood did soon cease its flowing
Of five loving husbands in the prime of life glowing;
By a huge mountain wave, was their skiff overthrown,
And it sank them alas, for to rise never more.
Our fates hadn’t yet been commissioned by heaven.
Our threads of existence to sever in twain;
By that same tyrant wave was our skiff on shore driven;
Half drowned we escaped from the terrific main.
What shafts-of affliction were our bosoms stinging,
In viewing our friends to their shattered skiff clinging,
A big breaker came, dire death with it bringing,
And sank them, alas, in the watery main.
No more did I see them arise o’er the billows;
Brave Roche, ere going down, waved a long, long adieu.
In death I saw victims, they’re numbered poor fellows;
To Heaven’s tribunal their spirits quick flew.
Man’s life’s but a span, how entrancing and fleeting;
What pen can express that sad sorrowful greeting,
Or what pencil portray the dark scene of the meeting,
When home to their families, their bodies were drew.
I’ll now name the crew that nigh Curracloe perished;
They have left their poor families, I sadly deplore
There’s Rickards, commander, whom fond parents cherished,
A man who was expert at helm or oar.
Although he was fishing, he could have been guiding,
A proud, stately barque, o’er the green billows riding,
In an all-seeing God, with experience confiding
For long he had practised the nautical lore.
There was Roche, who, from childhood the seas had been roaming;
Then Clarke, Brien and Campbell, alas they’re no more.
Their bodies were found when the storm ceased foaming,
Thrown up on the breakers on Blackwater’s shore.
They are gone, — but pray heaven — youthful and hoary,
They may view all their friends in eternal glory;
They are laid with their forefathers, famous in story,
From all earthly care in a cold silent tomb.
They are gone; but enough from your slumbers awaken,
You minstrels of Erin, now chant their sad doom.
Like five sturdy oaks by the rude storm shaken,
Cut down ’neath the blast in perfection’s full bloom.
Faythemen! when over your heads you see pending
A storm, with the elements do not be contending
To the shore with the coast—boats do you be quick tending,
And think of the Faythemen that are now in the tomb. |