I see themin the hissing spume,
I see them in the spray,
The ghosts of all the sailormen
That sleep in Cloughey Bay.
(The rocks are white with spindrift
And the wind is East today)

Ghosts of tall and gallant Dons,
Beared men of Spain,
Who drove their stately galleons
Across the Spanish Main,
But they will sail the seas no more
Nor sing their songs again.

Dutchmen from the Zuyder Zee,
Stolid men and slow,
who sailed with over-confidence
A coast they did'nt know,
And now their bones are bleaching white
Among the rocks below

Every kind of sailorman,
Who sailed upon the deep;
Cloughey Bay has claimed her share
And holds them in her keep,
Till the lee-shore breakers roar
And wake them from their sleep.