A real sailor can elbow his glass,
He loves both the sea and the wine,
A nip gives him courage and happiness,
There is always a pub suits him fine.
At night, at the wheel, aloft, or on deck,
A hailstorm may blow from the west,
He knows that a grog at the end of the watch,
Warms him up, is of all things the best.
And those down below, in oil, swear, and stream,
In the heat, forget almost to think,
But their eyes start to shine and they move twice as fast,
When you tell them there's something to drink.
And when we're ashore, our port is the pub,
To moor there, nothing else is our aim,
Our anchor gets hold near the beer and the bar,
And to drink and to sing is the game.