whitby goth weekend
Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great tides landward flow
Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great winds landward blow
When the long billows heavily roll o’er the harbour bar
And the blue waves flash to silver ‘mid the seaweeds on the Scar.
Under the cliffs at Whitby, whoso will stand alone
Where, in the shadow of the Nab, the eddies swirl and moan
When, to the pulses of the deep, the flood-tide rising swells
Will hear, amid it’s monotone, the clash of hidden bells.
And the man who dares on Hallowe’en on the Black Nab to watch
Till the rose-light on St. Hilda’s shrine the midnight moonbeams catch
And calls his sweetheart by her name, as, o’er the sleeping seas
The echo of the buried bells comes floating on the breeze.
Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great winds landward blow
When the long billows heavily roll o’er the harbour bar
And the blue waves flash to silver ‘mid the seaweeds on the Scar.
Under the cliffs at Whitby, whoso will stand alone
Where, in the shadow of the Nab, the eddies swirl and moan
When, to the pulses of the deep, the flood-tide rising swells
Will hear, amid it’s monotone, the clash of hidden bells.
And the man who dares on Hallowe’en on the Black Nab to watch
Till the rose-light on St. Hilda’s shrine the midnight moonbeams catch
And calls his sweetheart by her name, as, o’er the sleeping seas
The echo of the buried bells comes floating on the breeze.