The Loss of The Evangeline

Anonymous

As taut a craft as ever was seen

Was the Portknockie lugger, Evangeline,

Built for the swirl of the wild North Sea,

Of the toughest of oak and larch was she;

Her masts and sails and rigging and all

Were built to stand what might befall;

But even the strongest craft may fail

In the roaring rage of an Orkney gale.

Her Skipper was built on the self-same plan,

A rugged storm-trained Banffshire man,

Calm as a sea-bird, strong and brave,

He could ride the ridge of the roughest wave:

His spirit and grit nerved all his crew;

What the Skipper would dare they would forthwith do;

But even the bravest men may fail

In the roaring rage of an Orkney gale.

Season by season for many a year

She swung to her berth at Stronsay Pier,

The silver freight of her latest catch,

Glistening down her main deck hatch.

But whether her luck was good or bad,

A right warm welcome she always had,

And no one thought she would ever fail

In the roaring rage of an Orkney gale.

The Stronsay folk and her fisher crew

Forgathered as fisher folk aye do,

For, search the world, you will never find

Men of such single heart and mind;

They meet and they part like brothers all

With a smile, and a shake, and a cheery call,

Nor think of the day when their skill may fail

In the roaring rage of an Orkney gale.

One year, when the work of the fleet was done,

The Skipper set sail for the homeward run,

While the crew of the good Evangeline

Waving their hands, on the deck were seen,

While their voices rang back that old refrain

'Goodbye, Good Luck, We will come again.'

And no one dreamed that they ever would fail

In the roaring rage of an Orkney gale.

Christmas was past with its kindly cheer,

And Hansel day of the new born year,

When, after a feast, come need on need,

The fish must be caught that the children may feed.

So out from Portknockie the fisher fleet steered

While the wind to the deadly south eastward veered,

And woe to the craft that with it must sail

In the furious rage of an Orkney gale.

The night came down like the fall of doom;

Not a star shone out on the fearful gloom,

When suddenly rushed the wind to its worst.

With a bound from their nets the fisher fleet burst.

Then, by God alone that night was seen

The lights of the little Evangeline.

As she drove, bow down, with her tattered sail

In the furious grip of that Orkney gale.

Past Borough Head like a feather she flew

Beyond will or skill of her captain or crew; /

They had done their best; they had done their last,

For the breakers rushed through the raging blast

And the billows swept over the groaning deck,

Leaving the lugger a crewless wreck

To drift without mast, or wheel, or sail

In the flying scud of that Orkney gale.

They all came back, but not as before

With a leap and a laugh to Stronsay shore:

They all came back, but silent and still

As men who had yielded to God's great will.

And the Stronsay folk remembered with pain . . .

'Goodbye, Good Luck, We will come again.'

And they prayed, 'Lord, may thy mercy ne'er fail

The fishermen's need in an Orkney gale.'

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