The haunting glow there through the mist
—so quickly fading out of sight—
of what, pray tell, does it consist?
What be this strange and eerie light?
A will-o-wisp, I’m sure, I’m sure,
of faery tales and nothing more.
There’s nothing there, I’m sure, I’m sure,
within the fog of yonder shore.
But see, I see—or saw, that’s true.
Whatever’s gone, my eyes knew it.
If you’d just looked, you’d seen it too,
but lazily you stay and sit.
You saw something, I’m sure, I’m sure,
and nothing can a something be.
‘Twas just a dream, I’m sure, I’m sure,
a whisper of this dreadful sea.
You are a fool, and no mistake,
feigning you know without your eyes.
You lay a lounging, half awake,
and all you say, I say, are lies.
I’ve seen before, my boy, my boy,
and wished and prayed and cried and wept.
I’ll not arise, my boy, my boy,
for nothing is, I do suspect.
Yea nothing is, I hear you say
—what wicked tongues will preach!
If there be nothing, night nor day,
then nothing’s said. You nothing teach.
Of course, of course, my boy, my boy,
and I am nothing here either.
Of course, of course, my boy, my boy,
we’re all just will-o-wisp fire.
Tale Told 