It was one fine day in the month of May, and I was outward bound. I hadn’t any thing to pay for gin, so I walked the streets all round. My coat was out at the elbow, and I was sore in need, So I shipped as a little sailor boy, on board of the “Ingerid”. Then no more I’ll go to sea, across the Western Ocean. A-haulin’ an’ a-pullin’ I never will again. Then no more I’ll go to sea, across the Western Ocean. For ever more I’ll stay on shore, an’ go to sea no more
No more for me the first look-out, no more the wheel I’ll take. No more gaff-tops’l tacks I’ll shift, nor a-haul till me back does break. No more I’ll shout “All’s well, Sir!”, nor pump away for life. But I’ll go ashore from the “Ingerid”, an’ git meself a wife.
No more will I reef, no more will I furl, square in the crojic yard. No more the brightwork I will scrape with sand and canvas hard. No more up aloft will I fly, with a greasepot in me hand. But I’ll go ashore from the “Ingerid”, an’ settle down on land.
No more I’ll stay by the royal halyards, Nor eat their crackerhash. No soul an’ body lashings tie, nor in salt water wash, No tarring down on backstays, nor heave the caps’an round. But I’ll go ashore from the “Ingerid”, an’ git meself on ground.
