A sailor's life's a life of woe

A sailor's life's a life of woe,
He works now late now early,
Now up and down, now to and fro,
What then he takes it cheerly:
Blest with a smiling can of grog,
If duty call,
Stand, rise, or fall,
To fate's last verge he'll jog:
The cadge to weigh,
The sheets belay,
He does it with a wish;
To heave the lead,
Or to cat-head
The pond'rous anchor fish:
For, while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger drown'd,
We despise it to a man:
We sing a little, and laugh a little,
And work a little, and swear a little,
And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can.

If howling winds and roaring seas
Give proof of coming danger,
We view the storm, our hearts at ease,
For Jack's to fear a stranger;
Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly,
Where now below
We headlong go,
Now rise on mountains high:
Spight of the gale
We hand the sail,
Or take the needful reef,
Or man the deck
To clear some wreck,
To give the ship relief:
Though perils threat around,
All sense of danger's drown'd,
We despise it to a man.
We sing a little, &c.

But yet think not our fate is hard,
Though storms at sea thus treat us,
For coming home, a sweet reward!
With smiles our sweethearts greet us!
Now too the friendly grog we quaff,
Our am'rous toast,
Her we love most,
And gayly sing and laugh:
The sails we furl,
Then for each girl
The petticoat display;
The deck we clear,
Then three times cheer,
As we their charms survey;
And then the grog goes round,
All sense of danger drown'd,
We despise it to a man:
We sing a little, &c.