She sits alone with her ancient thoughts she's sat till she's covered in grime she never moves from her rocking chair she just wiles away the time.
What does go on inside her head? what does she really think? the pain has made her look so sad with eyes that rarely blink.
Her hands are hard and calloused the cracks are etched so deep you sense she feels some fearful hurt but never does she weep.
Some say she's sat for thirty years They say she loved a sailor It's also said all hands were lost The prey to a ghostly whaler.
That ship set sail from Mulgrave Port With fifteen men on board The seas were rough and wind was hard but fin whales beckoned Nor'ard.
A listing ship in thick fog banks the crew fell to watery graves they now haunt the eastern seaboard or rest beneath those stormy waves.
So the old crone will sit there forever she knows that her man won't return she'll sit there and rock while she's waiting to join him when Death calls her turn.