We sailed away to Cardiff town,
From there to Bahia we were bound,
In Cardiff we lost our fine Old Man,
And Hard-tack Hans we got, got, got.

Repeat last two lines in each verse as chorus

With a following wind we steered away,
The t'gallants blew out the folloiwng day,
They boom and they shook, made a dreadful kicking,
In that very old piece of loot, loot, loot.

Being what it is- the windmill pump,
Would neither go, nor suck a drop,
Yes, for it to work it must blow a hurricane,
And so we pumped out eighteen inches - water, water, water.

One week of this soon got us down,
"The bread's nearly gone," said Hard-tack Hans,
Twelve packets were made - one for each man,
To whack out the bread till we came to land, land, land.

As I walked out one morning down by the Sligo dock,
I overhead an Irishman conversing with Tapscott;
Good morning, Mr. Tapscott, would you be after telling to me,
Have you ever a ship bound for New York in the State of Amerikee.

Oh, yes, my pretty Irish boy, I have a ship or two,
They're laying at the wharf there, waiting for a crew;
They are New York packets, and on Friday they will sail,
At present she is taking in one thousand bags of meal.

Straightaway then I started, 'twas on the yellow-grog road,
Such roars of mille-murder! oh, the like was never known;
And there I paid my passage down in solid Irish gold,
It's often times that I sat down and wished myself at home.

The very day we started, 'twas on the one of May,
The captain he came upon the deck, these words to us did say;
Cheer up, my hearty Irish blades, don't let your courage fail.
Today I'll serve you pork and beans, tomorrow yellow meal.

One day as we were sailing in the channel of St. James,
A north-west wind came up to us, and drove us back again;
Bad luck to the Josh A. Walker, and the day that she set sail,
For the dirty sailors broke upon my chest, and stole my yellow meal.

But now I'm in America, and working upon the canal,
To cross the ocean in one of those boats, I know I never shall,
But I'll cross it in a great big ship that carries both meat and sail,
Where I'll get lashings of corned meat, and none of your yellow meal.

From Eng-land to... California I went,
To stay in that country was my full intent,
But drinking bad whiskey, like ev'ry damn fool,
Soon got me imported back to Liverpool.

Julia, roll!
Roll! Julia, roll!
The Liverpool girls they've got us in tow!

The Alaska of Boston lies down in the Bay,
Waiting for a fair wind to get under way.
The sailors on board, so sick and so sore,
Their whiskey's all gone, they can't get no more.

Here comes our mate, with his jacket so blue;
He's looking for work for the sailors to do.
Then "Jib tops'l halliards!" he loudly does roar,
Saying, "Lay aloft, Paddy, you son of a whore!"

That night off Cape Horn I shall never forget,
And well I remember, I think of it yet,
She was running bows under, and the sailors all wet.
She was scudding twelve knots with her main skys'l set.

Here's to our captain, wherever he be,
He's a friend to his sailors on land or on sea;
But as for our mate, he's a dirty old brute,
And I hope when he dies straight to hell he'll skyhoot.