Oh, a poor ol’ man came ridin’ by,
An’ we say so, an’ we ‘ope so!
A poor ol’ man came ridin’ by.
Oh, poor ol’ ‘orse!
Sez I, “Ol’ man, yer ‘orse will die,”
Sez I, “Ol’ man, yer ‘orse will die,”
Ol’ ‘orse, ol’ ‘orse, what brought ye here?
Ye’ve carted stones fer many a year.
From Bantry Bay to Ballywhack,
Where ye fell down an’ broke yer back.
When ye’re worn out with sad abuse,
Ye’re salted down fer sailors use.
An’ if ye dies we’ll tan yer hide,
An’ if ye don’t we’ll ride ye high.
Fer one long month I rode ‘im high,
But now ye’re through an’ we’ll git our pay.
One month of Hell-bent life we’ve led,
While ye’ve laid in a nice, warm bed.
But now yer month is up ol’ Turk,
Git up, yer swine, an’ look fer work.
Git up, yer swine, an’ look fer graft,
while we lays on an’ yanks yer aft.
He’s dead as a nail in he lamproom door,
He won’t come a-hazin’ us no more.
We’ll yank ‘im aft to the cabin door,
An’ ‘opes we niver sees ‘im more.
We’ll hoist ‘im up to the main yard arm,
An’ to the depths of sea we’ll drop ‘im down.
