Tight lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly

Tight lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly
As honest Bill Bobstay, so kind and so true;
He'd sing like a mermaid, and foot it so lightly,
The forecastle's pride, and delight of the crew!
But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters
He went, though his fortune was kind without end;
For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters,
What's the good on't, d'ye see, but to succour a friend.

There's Nipcheese the purser, by grinding and squeezing,
First plund'ring, then leaving, the ship like a rat,
The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff breeze in,
And mounts, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat.
My bark, though hard storms on life's ocean should rock her,
Though she roll in misfortune, and pitch end for end,
No, never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker,
When by handing it out, he can succour a friend.

Let them throw out their wipes, and cry, 'spight of 'their crosses,
'And forgetful of toil that so hardly they bore,
'That sailors, at sea, earn their money like horses,
'To squander it idly like asses ashore.'
Such lubbers their jaw would coil up, could they measure,
By their feelings, the gen'rous delight without end
That gives birth in us tars to that truest of pleasure,
The handing our rhino to succour a friend.

Why what's all this nonsense they talks of, and pother,
About rights of man? What a plague are they at?
If they means that each man to his messmate's a brother,
Why the lubberly swabs, ev'ry fool can tell that.
The rights of us Britons we know's to be loyal,
In our country's defence our last moments to spend,
To fight up to the ears to protect the blood royal,
To be true to our wives, and to succour a friend.