I thought I heard, the Old Man say.
Ch: Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
You can go ashore and draw your pay,
Ch: It's time for us to leave her.
You may make her fast and pack your gear,
And leave her moored to the West Street Pier.
The winds were foul, the work was hard,
From Liverpool docks to the Brooklyn yard.
She would not steer nor ware nor stay,
She shipped green water night and day.
She shipped it green and made us curse,
The mate's a devil and the old man's worse.
The winds were foul, the ship was slow,
The grub was bad, the wages low.
The winds were foul, the trip was long,
But before we go we'll sing this song.
We'll sing, oh, may we never be
On a hungry bitch the like of she.