The Ghost of Wharton's Bay

The locals say, at Wharton’s Bay, the night is when you’ll hear her.
Wails echo ‘cross the spark’ling way; ‘tis then you’ll know she’s nearer.
A bonny lass, her eyes like glass, the deepest shade of blue.
Her crimson mane drives men insane—I know this to be true.

 
Time and again, sea-faring men had used Gayle’s womanhood
to squelch the loneliness within—to make themselves feel good.
But one man said his love burned true; he claimed they would be wed.
He’d sailed away, he’d not returned; Gayle jumped, and she was dead.

 
‘Twas late the date I met my fate within those stony walls.
At Wharton Bay’s lighthouse, ablaze, one night, ‘twixt stormy squalls.
The foghorn blared, I grew so scared, for none had manned the switch.
The light blinked out, gusts growled about; my nerves were set a’twitch.

 
A vessel steered, just as I’d feared, toward rocks around the isle;
Dread clutched my heart as a ship neared, Gayle flashed her wicked smile.
“Hope holds no sway, sailors today—ill-fated, everyone.
For, when I’m through, they’ll come for you before the rising sun.”

 
I reached the place I’d seen her face—she disappeared, like smoke.
Cold rain swept in like gushing sin, thus soon, my clothes were soaked.
When just as fast behind the glass, her visage gleamed quite bright.
Bleak cloudy skies dispersed Gayle’s cries, drowned out that stormy night.

 
The large light beamed to pierce the dark; horns bellowed out below.
Fierce gale force winds still raged within the bay at Wharton’s Cove.
The vessel’s bow was splintered now, the warning, come too late.
As all her crew had perished too—frail frigate met her fate.
 

Soon, thirty holes dug for the souls who drowned that deadly night.
While I was blamed, I clearly claimed that something wasn’t right.
Yes, Gayle’s still there, her baleful stare glares out, both night and day.
Across the stark and stormy seas that crash ‘cross Wharton’s Bay.
 

The locals say, in Wharton’s Bay, at dark you’ll hear her best.
Wails echo ‘cross the sandy shoal; her soul will never rest.
A bony lass–eyes black as glass; now shimmer bright with tears.
At Wharton’s Bay ‘tis where she’ll stay, forever through the years.