From Boston Harbour we set sail,
When it was blowing a devil of a gale,
With our ringtail set abaft the mizzen peak
And our Rule Britannia ploughing up the deep.
With a big bow-wow! Tow-row-row!
Fol de rol de ri do day!
Up comes the skipper from down below,
And he looks aloft and he looks alow,
And he looks alow and he looks aloft,
And its “Coil up your ropes there, fore and aft!”
Then down to his cabin he quickly crawls,
And unto his steward he loudly bawls,
“Go, mix me a glass that will make me cough,
For it's better weather here than it is up aloft.”
We poor sailors standing on the deck,
With the blasted rain all a-pouring down our necks;
Not a drop of grog would he to us afford,
But he damned our eyes at every other word.
Now the old beggar's dead and gone,
Darn his eyes, he left a son;
And if to us he doesn't prove frank,
We'll very soon make him walk the plank.
And one thing which we have to crave,
Is that he may have a watery grave,
So we'll heave him down into some dark hole,
Where the sharks'll have his body and the devil have his soul.