I heard a shouting over the deep salt sea,
‘twas a tristful cry from Bardsey.
a cry above the awful roaring wind,
and the great tiring sea and it’s sound.
the cry of the widows and the orphans,
a crowd of weak ones –
the lives of the husbands and fathers
were ended in the pools, the crags and the cross tide.

the last day of the month of November
had a cold face in the rough wind.
‘twas the year eighteen hundred and twenty two
that the threatening sound set its course.
a swift boat went under its sails,
with strong tackle of good craftmanship,
from Porth Meudwy towards Bardsey
along the roaring moist flow.

behold the sun’s light retreating,
the moon rising it’s grey dawn.
a wind from the West -
a grievous storm, a harsh hour.
a roaring like thunder was heard,
or like the sound of the guns of the field of blood.
oh such a tempest! Bardsey,
why won’t you come closer!

behold - the boat almost within refuge,
the safety and shelter of the Cafn,
behold - Death opening his cruel,

destructive greedy mouth.
only a rope’s length was between her
and landing in her place,
when in confusion and calamity
her bottom struck a great tough rock.
why, oh wind, do you rise
to bend and destroy the Supply?
such a small boat!
an impassioned curse upon you!

Thomas Williams, the ship captain,
is today at the end of his journey.
the length of his career ended
at the bottom. Such cold work.
and his daughter Sydney, his spitting image,
the same minute went to the same place.
so terrible for her to lose her life.
a great painful agony by the seashore.