There’s a Church in northern Cornwall
Where an eccentric used to roam
He was the vicar and a poet
Morwenstow Church became his home
Reverend Hawker was this cleric
He wrote poetic sermons in his hut
Made out of driftwood from the seashore
From shipwrecked vessels out of luck
With a service of thanksgiving
And prayers for harvesting the corn
The bread of Eucharist was baking
And a Harvest Festival was born
In the night he would awaken
To rescue seamen from the wrecks
They were buried in the churchyard
Not what the locals would expect
He was married to an heiress
Much older than himself
She would fund his education
Providing all his earthly wealth
The Old Vicarage was their home
It’s a magnificent building still
His contemplations by the sea
Were just his calling to fulfill
There’s a figurehead on a grave
To mark the Caledonia’s demise
And Reverend Hawker is remembered
For honouring their lives
Was he a sinner or a saint
It’s not for us to question why
We’re left to ponder on his life
And respect where many seamen lie
