The Loch Archre was a clipper tall
With seven and twenty hands in all
Twenty to hand and reef and haul
A skipper to sail, and Mates to bawl,
"Tally into the tackles falls,
Heave now and start her,
Heave and pawl."

Hear the yarn of a sailor
'Tis and old yarn, learned at sea.

The crew were shipped and they said "Farewell,
So long me tottie you lovely gal
We sail today should we fetch to hell
It's time we tackled the wheel a spell."

The dockside loafers talked on the Quay (Key)
the day they towed her down to the sea
"Lord, what a handsome ship she be.
Cheer her sonny boys, three times three."
They gave her a cheer as the custom is
And the crew yelled back "GIVE OUR LOVE TO LIZ!
Three cheers for the old pier head
And the bloody "stay at homes," they said.

Then the darkness, the coming on of night
She drops the tug at the Tusker Light
Her yards were trimmed and she slanted south
With her royals set, and a "bone in her mouth."

They crossed the line and all went well
They ate, they slept, they struck the bell
And I give you gospel truth when I state
The crew could find no fault with the Mate.

But, one night, off the river Platte
She freshens up and blows like thunder
Buried her deep lee scuppers under
She couldn't lay to, nor yet pay off
Her decks swept clean in the bloody trough.
Then, a fierce squall hit the Loch Archre
Buried her down to her waterways
The main shrouds gave and the forstay
Green seas carried the wheel away.





Before the watch below could dress
She was cluttered up in a blushing mess
Her masts were gone and before you knowed
She filled by the head, and down she goed.

The crew made seven and 20 dishes
For the big Jacksharks and the little fishes
Over their bones the water swishes.

Now, the wives, the girls wait in the rain
For a ship that won't come home again
"Oh, I reckon it must be them head winds," they say,
"They'll be home tomorrow, if not today.
I'll just nip home and air the sheets
Buy the fixin's and cook the meats
As my man likes, as my man eats."

Up the windy streets they go
They are thinking their men are homeward bound
With anchors hungry for English ground,
But, the bloody fun of it is, they've all drowned.

Hear the yarn of a sailor
'Tis an old yarn, learned at sea.

John Masefield

This is from memory which is not getting better.