A faithless friend on a gale-scarred day
Has let the Edna Irene go astray.
A parting line, a drifting moor
And a ship lies broken on Avalon Shore.

He said when he left, too ill to stand,
To the friend who steadied his quivering hand,
“Now well you know Nor’easters come
And my boat, though no considerable sum,

“Is all I own, by her I eat,
By catching fish I buy my meat.
I fear to leave her here alone
For she is my all my floating home.

“So promise me to treat her fair,
For she’s a friend that’s in your care.”
And so the friend, he smiled and swore
He’d surely tend the craft at moor.

Nor’easter came on Saturday,
And in the place where ripples play
Scythed white havoc of waves and din,
Screaming combers wild with wind,

And every ship not sailed away
Was smothered, tortured, by the spray
And vessels sawed at stubborn lines
Pitching, twisting masts and chines.


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