Oh Lucy, poor Lucy, your family’s dead
Of fumes from the ashheap that lay overhead.
And you, but a suckling at your mother’s breast
Were found with your brothers and sisters in bed.
Yet you lived, and you prospered, to sail o’er the sea
And your children grew strong in The Land o’ the Free.
Hemlock and white campion, now surround the old tower
Where a baby once slept through the long lonely hours.
For three days had passed since the light had gone out
When a party would land to be touched by your sight.
For your mother lay by you –as white as a rose,
As you suckled her breast where her body lay cold.
And, one day, they’d come to the Island of May
Those who’d heard of the baby found suckling that day.
Your descendants came to –to revisit the tower
To rekindle those memories they share of you now.
Of the baby, who one day, grew up to be you
How all they were told of your story was true.
Though you never returned to the island you left
You would lie in the arms of the soldier you wed.
When you died, some would say, they heard a child weep
That you spoke of your brothers then drifted asleep…