Saint Patrick's day in 'sixty-five,
From New York we set sail.
Kind Providence did favor us
With a sweet and pleasant gale.
We bore away from America
As you will understand;
With courage brave we rode the waves
Bound down to Newfoundland.

Stafford Nelson was our captain's name,
Scare sixteen years of age,
As good and brave a seaman
As ever crossed the waves.
The Abeline our brig was called,
Belonging to Maitland;
With flowing sheets we sailed away
Bound down to Newfoundland.

When two days out, to our distress,
Our captain he fell sick
And shortly was unable
To show himself on deck.
The fever raged, which made us fear
That death was near at hand.
From Halifax we bore away,
Bound down to Newfoundland.

The land we made but knew it not,
For strangers were we all,
Our captain not being able
To come to deck at all;
So then we were obliged again
To haul her off from land.
With saddened hearts we put to sea
Bound down to Newfoundland.

So all that night we ran our brig
Till early the next day,
Our captain getting worse, we all
With one accord did say:
"We'll square away for Cape Canso,
My boys, now bear a hand!"
We spread our canvas to the wind
Bound down to Newfoundland.

Words missing

At two o'clock that afternoon,
As you shall understand,
She anchored safe in Arichat,
Bound down to Newfoundland,

And to the Board of Health that day
For medical aid did go,
Our captain near the point of death
That symptoms now did show.
And eight days after we arrived,
At God's just command
He breathed his last in Arichat,
Bound down to Newfoundland.

Both day and night may we lament
For our departed friend,
And pray to be protected
From what has been his end.
Be with us and protect us, God,
By Thin almighty hand,
And guard us safe while on the seas,
Bound down to Newfoundland.

When the Alabama's keel was laid,
Ch: ROLL, Alabama, ROLL,
They laid her keel in Birkenhead,
Ch: ROLL, Alabama, ROLL!

Oh, she was built at Birkenhead,
She was built in the yard of Jonathan Laird.

And down the Mersey she rolled away,
And Britain supplied her with men and guns.

And she sailed away in search of a prize.
And when she came to the port of Cherbourg,

It was there she met the little Kearsarge.
It was there she met the Ke-arsarge.

It was off Cherbourg harbor in April, '65,
That the Alabama went to a timely grave.

Farewell and adieu to you noble hearties,—
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain,
For I've received orders for to sail for the Deadman,
But hope with the grand fleet to see you again.

I have hove my ship to, with main-top-sail aback, boys;
I have hove my ship to, for to strike soundings clear—
The black scud a'flying; but, by God's blessing, dam' me,
Right up the Channel for the Deadman I'll steer.

I have worried through the waters that are called the Doldrums,
And growled at Sargasso that clogs while ye grope—
Blast my eyes, but the light-ship is hid by the mist, lads:—
Flying Dutchman—odds bobbs—off the Cape of Good Hope!

But what's this I feel that is fanning my cheek, Matt?
The white goney's wing?—how she rolls!—'t is the Cape!
Give my kit to the mess, Jock, for kin none is mine, none;
And tell Holy Joe to avast with the crape.

Dead reckoning, says Joe, it won't do to go by;
But they doused all the glims, Matt, in sky t' other night.
Dead reckoning is good for to sail for the Deadman;
And Tom Deadlight he thinks it may reckon near right.

The signal!—it streams for the grand fleet to anchor.
The captains—the trumpets—the hullabaloo!
Stand by for blue-blazes, and mind your shank-painters,
For the Lord High Admiral, he's squinting at you!

But give me my tot, Matt, before I roll over;
Jock, let's have your flipper, it's good for to feel;
And don't sew me up without baccy in mouth, boys,
And don't blubber like lubbers when I turn up my keel.