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.
Oh, the times are hard and the wages low;
I'll pack my bag and go below.
It's growl you may, but go you must;
It matters not whether you're last or fust.
I'm getting thin and growing sad
Since first I joined this wooden-clad.
I thought I heard the second mate say:
"Just one more drag and then belay."
A pumping version, sometimes used at sea
A dollar a day is a sailor's pay,
To pump all night and work all day.
The times are hard and the ship is old,
And there's six feet of water in her hold.
The bo’sun shouts, the pumps stand by,
But we can never suck her dry.
Oh, heave around the pump-bowls bright;
There'll be no sleep for us this night.
Heave around, or we shall drown;
Don't you feel her settling down?
The rats have gone, and we the crew,
It's time, by God, that we went too.