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To the Isle of Man our course did stand,
And the wind from the south-east blowing,
Then on the spring-tide our vessel did slide,
And all the whole time it was snowing,
The gale did increase, & then you’ll guess
What was our most sad situation,
Death did appear when that we drew near
To the coast of this Irish nation.
The hail and frost on the mountains tost,
And the snow lay on Ballaghanary,
And round Mourne shore the billows roar’d
From Strangford to sweet Portaferry.
To the bar of Dundrum this vessel did come,
No hand at their post was neglecting;
Captain, pilot, and mate, the truth to relate,
But could not preserve her from striking.
But O! the sad cries we sent to the skies,
Whene’er our good ship split asunder,
Our mainmast so tall overboard did fall,
And some of our good men fell under.
But the proud waves did beat her to staves,
Her name was the Middlesex Flora.
Away they did sweep our men to the deep,
Which greatly increases my sorrow.
Just I and no more, escap’d to the shore,
Where the billows was roaring like thunder,
I am one left alive out of twenty-five.
And that is a very great wonder.
