We were west of the Azores, Five days out of New York, when we spotted the Mary Celeste. She was listing to Leeward But still under sail with no obvious sign of distress.
Briggs, Her captain, I knew as a man good and true And his shipmates were capable men. We hailed, but no answer, So I send men aboard To find out what had become of them.
Her cargo intact, just one lifeboat gone And a rope that trailed aft in the sea. Something had caused them To abandon their ship but why was a mystery to me.
There are storms on the Ocean As winter draws near; A sea grave was his crew's likely fate Or else they were drifting Ever farther from shore with nothing to eat on their plates.
I gave thanks to Godβs grace that cold, indifferent Fateβs bony fingers had not touched on me and I wept for my friends of the Mary Celeste who would never come home from the sea.