Her decks are drowned in sea-wrack, her guns are sunk in sand,
Where she lies in the still water, hard by the Irish strand.
There are dead in her gilded cabins, there are white bones in her hold,
With the coffins rotting plank from plank, brimming o'er with gold.

Broad o' beam they built her, that they might load her deep:
They sowed a goodly harvest for the fierce salt seas to reap:
They freighted her with merchandise, with gold they weighed her well,
Ere they steered slowly to her bourne their castled citadel.

God rest their souls where they lie low, - where she swirled down of yore
With chanting priest and shrieking slave, a stone's throw from the shore,
Nor all their piled-up ingots, nor all their gold could save, -
Under the cliff together, the Don and the chained slave.

Far o'er the gray-green waters goes sound of gull and gale;
White caps are on the breakers, and the sun on a patched sail:
But she lies lost and mouldered, with her captains swart and bold,
Dead in her gilded cabins, and weighted down with gold.