The Sovereign of the Sand

The keel was laid in '42, a spine of solid oak,
The finest wood the valley grew, or so the foreman spoke.
We hammered home the copper bolts and sang a rhythmic tune,
From the rising of the morning star to the setting of the moon.
She was two-hundred feet of majesty, a clipper built for speed,
Designed to carry silk and tea to satisfy the greed.
(Verse 2)
The shipwrights came from Gloucester way, the caulkers from the North,
To see the greatest merchantman that ever ventured forth.
We spent the winters sanding down the curves of every spar,
And dreamed of how her figurehead would chase the evening star.
The town had pledged its silver, boys, the widows gave their gold,
To see the name of Sovereign etched brave and bright and bold.
(Chorus)
So we’ll sing no more of the open shore or the white foam at the bow,
For the rust has bit the iron bolt and the weeds have claimed the prow.
She stands a ghost in the shipyard gates, beneath a weeping sky,
The grandest ship to never sail, and the dream we let to die.
Aye, she’s tethered to the earth, a prisoner of the strand,
May God have mercy on the souls of the Sovereign of the Sand.
(Verse 3)
The day the rigging was to rise, the heavy tidings came,
The bank had closed its iron doors and put the board to shame.
The panic swept the city streets, the currency fell low,
And the man who signed the paper said, "The hull has got to go."
We stood there with our mallets raised, the sun upon the wood,
While the silence grew like ivy where the bustling shipyard stood.
(Verse 4)
No canvas ever caught the gale, no anchor ever bit,
She never tasted deep blue swells or felt the current’s grit.
The creditors, they stripped her clean of brass and lantern light,
Then left her like a skeleton to bleach within the white.
Now the children play among the beams where the heavy mainmast fell,
And they listen to the wind that sighs like a phantom diving bell.
(Chorus)
So we’ll sing no more of the open shore or the white foam at the bow,
For the rust has bit the iron bolt and the weeds have claimed the prow.
She stands a ghost in the shipyard gates, beneath a weeping sky,
The grandest ship to never sail, and the dream we let to die.
Aye, she’s tethered to the earth, a prisoner of the strand,
May God have mercy on the souls of the Sovereign of the Sand

Tragic 19th-century sea shanty, minor key, a cappella with heavy foot stomps, echoey tavern hall acoustics.