Come, all you pretty fair maids, a line to you I'll write:
In ploughing of the ocean I take a great delight.
Our land lady fears no danger, nor danger does she know,
While we poor jolly sailor lands plought on, the ocean through.
When labouring men come home at night, they tell the girls fine tales,
What they have been doing, all in the new cornfields.
'Tis a-cutting of the grass so short 'tis all that they can do,
While we poor jolly sailors bold ploughs on the ocean through.
Here's the night as dark as any pitch, and the wind begins to blow,
Our captain he commanded us, "All hands turn out below."
Our captain he commanded us our goodly ship to guard:
"Jump up aloft, my lively lads, and strike topgallant yard."
You see a storm is rising, and we are all confound,
Looking out every moment that we shall all be drowned.
Cheer up! never be fainthearted; we shall see our girls again;
In spite of all our danger we'll plough the raging main.
So now the war's all over, and we are safe on shore,
We'll sing, and we will dance, my boys, as we have done before.
We'll sing and we will dance, my boys, and spend our money free,
And when our gold it is all gone, we'll boldly go to sea.
Journal of the [English] Folk-Song Society, Vol. 7, No. 27 (1923)