A Fickle Mistress

From the mountains to the sea

Across a field of gold

Rode a king and on his knee

A cloak of scarlet fold

Awaiting there in harbour

Where the bells rang bold

Lay ship to bear him over

While the white waves rolled

Bleaching sails hang

Food has gone to mould

Cracked are lips that sang

And rank the gilded hold

Cries go up to heaven

Begging to behold

The treasure to be given

If the white waves rolled

At last a wind is rising

Sun the clouds enfold

Hear the seabirds crying

In air all sudden cold

With thundercrack of sail

Ringing doom is tolled

Drowning curses in the gale

As the white waves rolled

In wrack beneath the foam

Upon a bed of gold

Lost to memory of home

Sleep evermore the bold

About the fo’c’sle of the dead

Weedy fingers fold

O’er bones a pall of crimson red

And the white waves rolled