The once-proud schooner rots on the shore,
and hears the breakers’ endless roar,
to ride the flood tides nevermore,
to fish on the Northern Banks.
The flood tides oft’ had borne her away,
to face the North Atlantic spray,
and filled her holds day after day
with cod, from the Northern Banks.
But she was Queen of the Sea in her day:
beneath her bowsprit would porpoises play,
and through winter gales, her captain would pray
to the god of the Northern Banks.
Yes, she was Queen of the Sea, in her prime,
and through her rigging seamen would climb,
and strain ‘til they heard the cry sublime,
“Fish ho!” on the Northern Banks.
Then with holds full, she’s homeward bound,
and through town streets laughter would sound,
and her crew would smile, for word was around,
“She’s the best on the Northern Banks!”
Now the Queen lies asleep, with the beach for her bed,
and children play in the sand ‘round her head,
but she doesn’t mind, for her heart has led
her home, to the Northern Banks.