If anyone ever thought of me
Tossed and thrown on the wild, wild wave,
Rolling and listing and being brave?
(Make us some coffee, sailor, and make it strong
For the weather's wicked and the night is long.)
Ah! Better the deep with its cold embrace
Than to see the hatred on their face;
Better the locker of Davy Jones
Than to heed the insults they threw, like stones.
(That's my lad. The spoon stands upright in this stuff;
There'll be no nodding off at the helm for us.)
'Tis the irony of my life, old son;
When everything is said and done,
The Virtuous all rely on me
For their silks, their spices, and their tea.