Day's plight
When the mists drift down on Plymouth Sound
When the fingers of night cast their shroud
Be away to your home - don't be tempted to roam
For the wail of the dead's very loud
On the twentieth day of the month after May
From its watery, maritime bier
There rises a ghost from an unhappy host
Whose tomb is a wreck called Maria
In the year of our Lord sev'teen sev'n'ty four
At the sign of the Armada Inn
A mortal named Day, so the old records say
Bet his life on a fanciful whim
He wagered he'd cheat (at six score feet deep
In Maria off Firestone Bay)
The horsemen of Hell or his soul he would sell
And his bones with Poseidon would lay
In that maritime tomb he went to his doom
As the vessel submerged in the sound
In that stout oaken bed his heart filled with dread
As he listened to Hell's baying hounds
When the mists drift down over Plymouth Sound
And the grey shrouds blanket the moon
Day meets the night, lamenting his plight
With the others who went to their doom
© 1998 Chris Hill
