lirik lagu shane pendergast - the wreck of the muscongus
wood upon a sea of white, november at its’ rawest
clawing through the churning foam, came the lumber ship muscongus
h~ll~bent for land a straggly crew, for the wind proved unforgiving
and a storm was born with a raging scorn, and a stifling cold came gripping
with covehead harbour slipping
now saville was a scrawny lad, on the crew he was the youngest
paled in scale to the brawny frames, of the men aboard muscongus
saville always held his end, for looks can be deceiving
and none as brave in the stormy waves as saville was that evening
november gale came stealing
then came the lurch each man had feared, and the wind laughed with a howl
for a sandstone spear with malice seared, into the fair ship’s bowels
and all then knew the ship would sink into the purling ocean
each man turned pale in the cackling gale, as the beastly billows stove in
and panic ever~growing
the captain roared she’s going down, there’s no sense tryin’ to save her
for the storm is strong and it won’t be long ’til the water overtakes her
he called then for a volunteer, to row a raft to shore
and seek rescue of the hapless crew, each man looked to the floor
the silence overbore
one voice rose up o’er the angry gusts, young saville volunteered
“you’ll never last in a timber raft”, warned the third mate with a sneer
yet saville had a hero’s heart and conjured bravery
with the top~sails furled, and the wind a’whirl, he went out upon the sea
for to meet his destiny
’twas a grueling clash of man and sea, as he paddled t’wards the shore
and he did not cower for four long hours, ’til he came upon the port
weary and wet he ambled to a shanty up on shore
but the winds did swell like the fires of h~ll, the storm grew ever~more
as he knocked upon the door
a fisherman let saville in, provided sips of brew
when saville thawed he said by god we have to save my crew
but the fisherman was old and wise, and he packed his humble stove
we’ll be staying here ’til the weather’s clear, we’d be k!lled out in the foam
the storm has only grown
at dawn the storm had petered out, and the word was sent around
the covehead men did venture then, muscongus to be found
three tiresome hours they searched the sea, until each man was sure
the waves had claimed a dozen graves, the barque forevermore
to rest on ocean floor
young saville is a woodsman now, no longer will he sail
for when he’s close, to a stormy coast
he can hear an awful wail
twelve voices screaming in the wind, no longer do they sneer
as clear as day he can hear them say, “i too will volunteer.”
“i too will volunteer.”
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