Without rudder, without sail
Drifts my soul, the brig “Disaster,”
And the madness of the gale
Takes the place of mate or master!
Covered is its ghostly keel
With sea-slime, sea-weed, sea-crust;
And its bulkheads groan and reel;
And its bolts are caked with rust;
Storm-tossed sea-gulls phantom-white
On the spars of the “Disaster”
Scream while the great winds of night
Drive the derelict still faster.
And the drowned men floating deep
Leagues beneath that churning sea,
Mutter in their careless sleep,
“The brig ‘Disaster’ goes merrily!”
And the brig “Disaster” drives right on,
Without captain, without mate,
Top-sails, bowsprit, compass gone,
Lost--exultant, desolate!