Two real tars, whom duty called

Two real tars, whom duty called
To watch in the foretop,
Thus one another overhaul'd,
And took a cheering drop:
I say Will Hatchway, cried Tom Tow,
Of conduct what's your sort,
As through the voyage of life you go,
To bring you safe to port?

Cried Jack, you lubber don't you know?
Our passions close to reef,
To steer where honour points the prow,
To hand a friend relief:
These anchors get but in your power,
My life for't that's your sort;
The bower, the sheet, and the best bower
Shall bring you up in port.

Why then you're out, and there's an end,
Tom cried out blunt and rough,
Be good, be honest, serve a friend,
Be maxims well enough;
Who swabs his bows at other's woe,
That tar's for me your sort,
His vessel right a head shall go
To find a joyful port.

Let storms of life upon me press,
Misfortunes make me reel,
Why, dam'me what's my own distress?
For others let me feel:
Ay, ay, if bound with a fresh gale
To heaven, this is your sort,
A handkerchief's the best wet sail
To bring you safe to port.