The Lost Son

Oh cruel waves, tyrant waves! where is my son?With my brave boy, my gallant boy, what have ye done?Long, long, have I watched for his coming in vain,But surely, oh surely, he'll come back again.

Ah! the waves they are moaning in grief-laden tones,As though they re-echoed my sighs and my groans;Deep, deep he is buried beneath the salt spray,And the winds and the waves chant his funeral lay.

He is lying at rest and no dreams vex his sleep,—Ah! would I were sleeping as sound and as deep:Gold, jewels, and treasures unnumbered are there,But the sea holds no treasure with him can compare.

The clouds become blacker, more stormy the main,And the wild wind is blowing a mad hurricane;They are seeking fresh victims, but cannot destroyAnother so fair and so brave as my boy.

Cruel waves, ye have robbed me of all I held dear,And there's nothing on earth I can love now or fear:Ah! would ye but bear me to where he lies lowI would bless ye, and ban ye no more as a foe!