He was the captain of the Nightingale,
Twenty-one days from Clyde-In-Coal;
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale,
When he died on the North Rock Shoal.

Just five short hours from Bermuda, in a fine October 
gale,
There came a cry: Oh, there be breakers dead ahead!
From the collier, Nightingale,
No sooner had the captain brought her 'round,
Came a rending crash below;
Hard on her beam-ends, groaning, went the Nightingale,
And overside her mainmast goes.

Oh, captain, are we all for drowning?
Came the cry from all the crew.
The boats are smashed! How are we all then to be saved?
They are stove in through and through!
Oh, are ye brave and hardy collier men,
Or are ye blind and cannot see?
The captain's gig still lies before ye whole and sound,
It shall carry all o' we.

He was the captain of the Nightingale,
Twenty-one days from Clyde-In-Coal;
When he died on the North Rock Shoal.

But when the crew were all assembled,
And the gig prepared for sea,
'Twas seen there were but eighteen places to be manned,
Nineteen mortal souls were we;
But cries the captain: Now do not delay,
Nor do ye spare a thought for me.
My duty is to save ye all now, if I can.
See ye return quick as can be.

He was the captain of the Nightingale,
Twenty-one days from Clyde-In-Coal;
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale,
When he died on the North Rock Shoal.

Oh, there be flowers in Bermuda, beauty lies on every 
hand,
And there be laughter, ease, and drink for every man,
But there is no joy for me;
For when we reached the wretched Nightingale,
What an awful sight was plain:
The captain, drowned, was tangled in the mizzen-chains,
Smiling bravely beneath the sea.