The Cruel, Cruel Sea

The sea blows cold on Scotland’s shores,
Out west — the Hebrides,
The North Wind swipes its icy claws,
In landscapes that nigh freeze.

Iona is an island there,
But also this maid’s name;
A handsome beauty, perfect fair,
Her heart with joy aflame.

She’d tend the horses one by one,
And call them all by name,
She’d lead them through the winter sun,
And tend them true when lame.

She’d roam the gardens and the farms,
Enamoured, rain or shine,
Nature’s evanescent charms,
Her altar and her shrine!

Her suitor was one Lincoln Brand,
A wealthy banker’s son,
Her father’s pleasure and command,
Since riches would be won.

But gay Iona wanted Mark,
An artist from Kilchoan,
She’d flee to him in cloak of dark,
And romance then be shown.

Kisses bright neath arching night,
And promises of bliss,
His talents a beguiling sight,
With brush stroke na’er remiss.

Lincoln raging furious,
Could nowise win her heart,
She said his love was spurious,
And from her to depart.

Iona’s Pa, perturbed by this,
And seething in annoyance,
At Mark, an upstart from the cliffs,
With artistic flamboyance!

His hopeful scheming thwarted short,
He railed to Mr. Brand,
Have Lincoln bring her flowers!
Get the girl to understand!

The animosity flowed on,
And Lincoln was irate,
His wealthy father’s favour gone,
And hopeless to placate.

So raging with a bitter rage,
In covert, through the storm,
He set about a sly rampage,
In dark and vengeful form.

He took a musket from the chest,
And showing no remorse,
He hurried o’er the hilly crest,
And murdered every horse.

Iona was distraught with pain,
And screamed her lungs till raw,
The stable drenched, a horrid stain,
With blood pooled o’er the floor.

She fled to Mark, his barnyard bed,
Out west at quaint Kilchoan,
And there did rest her weary head,
Her torment to bemoan.

But e’en then her heart was broke,
And won by misery,
She left and leaping from the cliff,
Died nigh the cruel, cruel sea.

ADL