The Ghosts of the Forth

A wee ghost story for Christmas


‘Twas on a night like this,

Back in 1846,

That the Princess Mary Grace,

Went down wi’out a trace.


She went down in the fog,

As the cap’n wrote his log,

Wi’ o’er forty hands,

Jus’ nor’ o’ Prestonpans.


And every night like this,

Since 1846,

If you stand upon the shore,

You’ll hear ‘em all once more.


The screams o’ them poor souls,

Whose lives the sea has stole,

They beg someone to save,

‘Em from their watery graves.


But none could change their fate,

Wi’ destiny their date,

They went down to a man,

In sight o’ Prestonpans.


Sends a shiver down my spine,

When I hear them ev’ry time,

For who of us can ever say,

We won’t end up that very way.


So, enjoy your Christmas roast,

Make merry with your ev’ry toast,

For all you have and you hold dear,

Will sink wi’out a trace one year.