We wuz 42 seven and ninety some
On the way to Forty-three.
And the wind blew high, and the wind blew low,
And it boiled up a follerin' sea.
As we trimmed our sheets, and froze our feet
On the way to Forty three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load
Such merry souls were we,
As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones,
On the way to Forty-Three!

We was short of hands, and wuz far from land
Not a beachhead could we see,
And the rollers came on every hand
In a dark and wind-torn sea.
But we never blinked, nor slept a wink,
We was bold as bold could be,
On the way to Forty Three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load
Such merry souls were we,
As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones,
On the way to Forty-Three!

Oh, the lee rail drowned in the whistling sound
Of the foam caps blowing free,
And the cold sea roamed by the hatches coam,
And the bilges smelled like pee.
But the hands were stout, and they all turned out,
When the bosun's pipe sang wee,
God bless us all, on that cannon ball,
Making way for Forty Three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load
Such merry souls were we,
As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones,
On the way to Forty-Three!