Aft on the poop-deck, walkin' about,
There is the second mate, so steady an' so stout.
What he is thinkin' of, he only knows himsel',
O, we wish that he would hurry up an strike, strike the bell.
Strike th' bell, second mate, let us go below,
Look well to wind-ard, ye can see it's gonna blow,
Look at the glass, ye will see it has fell,
An' we wish that ye would hurry up an' strike, strike the bell!
Down on the maindeck, working at the pumps,
There is the larboard watch - ready for their bunks;
Over to wind'ard they see a great sweel,
They're wishing that the second mate would strike, strike the bell.
Aft at the wheel poor Anderson stands,
Grasping the spokes in his cold mitten'd hands,
Looking at the compass an' the course is clear as hell,
He's wishing that the second mate would strike, strike the bell.
For'ard on the fo'c'slehead keeping sharp lookout,
There is Johnny standing, ready for to shout,
"Lights burnin' bright, sir, an' everything is well!"
He's wishin' that the second mate would strike, strike the bell.
Aft on the quarterdeck our gallant captain stands,
Lookin' to wind'ard with his glasses in his hand,
What he is thinkin' of, we know very well,
He's thinking more of shortening sail than strike, strike the bell.