The Spectral Fishing Fleet

By the River Wyre, from years gone by,
Fleetwood's boats left high an' dry;
In the marshlands there they lie –
They'll go to sea no more.
Florentine and Our Joanne,
Eureka, Clarain an' Zegan,
Slowly sinking on the strand –
We call the Tiger's Tail.

Chorus:
Here's to the lads of Fleetwood town,
Here's to their boats of high reknown;
Let's raise a glass for another round,
Drink to those glory days!

There they lie an' there they'll stay,
Rusting, rotting, by the Bay,
No one knows what they say
When the sun goes down.
The moon comes up, the sun goes down,
Do you hear a whispering sound?
Or just the tide as it swirls around
The spectral fishing fleet?

(Chorus)

Through rusted ribs an' planks awry
The windsong hums a lullaby;
Shadows dance beneath the sky –
In the pale moonlight.
The fleet's all in; there's naught to say
But yarn about their glory days,
When they sailed beyond the Bay –
In search of fishing grounds.

(Chorus)

From the Dogger Bank to Iceland's shore,
They sailed ten thousand miles or more;
They trawled along the ocean floor,
Brought home the silver darlings.
But now the fish they are so few,
There's no work left for boats to do;
They're all laid up, an' lost their crews –
They'll cross the bar no more.

(Chorus)

Reprise:
Florentine and Our Joanne,
Eureka, Clarain an' Zegan,
Slowly sinking on the strand –
We call the Tiger's Tail;
We call the Tiger's Tail!