When I wuz a youngster I sailed with de rest, On a Liverpool packet bound out ter the West. We anchored one day in de harbour of Cork, Den we put art ter sea fer de port of New York Singin’ roll, roll bullies roll, Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow.
For forty-two days we wuz hungry an’ sore. Oh, de winds wus agin us, de gales dey did roar. Off Battery Point we did anchor at last, Wid our jibboom hove in an’ d’ canvas all fast.
De boardin’ house masters wuz off in a trice, A-shoutin’ an’ promisin’ all that wuz nice, An’ one fat ol’ crimp he got cottoned to me, Sez he, “Yer a fool, lad, ter foller de sea.”
Sez he, “Dere’s a job as is waitin’ fer you, Wid lashin’s of licker an’ beggar-all to do.” Sez he, “What d’yer say, lad, will you jump her too?” Sez I, “Ye ol’ barstard, I’m dammed if I do.”
But de best of intentions dey niver git far, Arter forty-two days at de door of a bar. I tossed off my licker an’ what d’yer think. Why dat lousy ol, barstard had drugs in me drink.
De nex I remember I woke in de morn, On a three-skys’l yarder bound out round Cape Horn. Wid an ol’ suit of oilskins an’ two pair o’ sox, An’ a bloomin’ big head, an’ a pain in me rocks.
Now all yer young sailors take a warnin’ by me, Keep a watch on yer drinks when de licker is free. An’ pay no intention to runner or whore, Or yer head’ll be thick and yer cock’ll be sore.
