The Mary Rose (with a little poetic licence and a slight apology to historical fact.)
The sea had always kept her sound
until the night she ran aground.
It was a wicked, fearsome blow,
struck full asunder stern to bow.
The Captain prayed, he did not cower,
bade all his crew to fight the hour.
But in that storm lashed awful night,
not e'en the Lord could help their plight.
With tortured groan, on bended knee,
she sank beneath the white foamed sea.
No sturdy timber, spar or sail
was left to tell the sorry tale.
All hands went with her to the deep,
to Davy Jones, within his keep,
brought to a sad untimely close,
the voyage of the Mary Rose.
Bathed then in early morning sun,
the mist shroud rose and there was none.
Save for the Gulls that rode the air,
to mark the watery grave out there.
Just on the beach, tide washed away,
a few sad trinkets of the day.
A coat; a flask; some bricker brack,
to show the breaking of her back.
Of the once proud ship there was no trace,
her tragic voyage gone apace.
Just the haunting call of a Mermaid's cry
to warn the tall ships passing by.
And mournful o'er the bleak coastline,
a watchful eye; the sands of time,
ever mark the sad untimely close
of the good ship Mary Rose.
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