I SING of that life of delight beyond measure

I SING of that life of delight beyond measure,
That tars calmly lead on the boisterous main,
Where toil is enjoyment, where trouble's all pleasure,
And where men lose their lives, a sure fortune to gain:
Where you fear no diseases but sickness and scurvy,
Where the water stinks sweetly, by way of a zest,
Where you walk on your legs, when you're not topsy turvy,
And where, though you sleep soundly, you're never at rest!
Then push round the can, oh you have not a notion
Of sailors, their grog, and their sweethearts, and wives,
Ah give me, my soul, the tight lads of the ocean,
Who, though they're so wretched, lead such happy lives.

Then you're always of billows and winds in the middle,
That so dash, and so whistle, and bodder your ears,
And play a duet with the tar's song and fiddle,
So sweetly that sounds, and that nobody hears:
Then to see the tight lads, how they laugh at a stranger,
Who fears billows can drown, and nine pounders can kill,
For you're safe sure enough, were you not in such danger,
And might loll at your ease, if you could but sit still.
Then push round the can, &c.

What of perils that, always the same, are so various,
And through shot holes and leaks leave wide open death's doors,
Devil a risk's in a battle, wer't not so precarious,
Storms were all gig and fun, but for breakers and shores!
In short, a tar's life, you may say dat I told it,
Who leaves quiet and peace, foreign countries to roam,
Is, of all other lives, I'll be bound to uphold it,
The best life in the world, next to staying at home.
Then push round the can, &c.