Oh here is a story of poor Jack O'Connor
And the tale that surrounds his untimely demise
Submitted in fact as just one like example
Of such gruesome history Read Island's comprised

The wind weathered rocks on the coast of Read Island
Guard over the mysteries of her own tragic lore
For it's said to this day that the ghosts of Read Island
Appear in the mist of her desolate shores

Jack Myers was a blaggart, a thief and a braggart
Who sold stolen whiskey from his sloop in the bay
When Taylor camp loggers bought up twenty-six bottles
Little they knew such a price would be paid

After a weekend of two fisted drinking
Jack Myers ran amok with an old forty-four
O'er a wager turned sour, on Monday's wee hours
Poor Jack O'Connor lay dead on the floor

The wind weathered rocks on the coast of Read Island
Guard over the mysteries of her own tragic lore
For it's said to this day that the ghosts of Read Island
Appear in the mist of her desolate shores