Oh, don't you hear the Old Man say
Ch: Goodbye fare-ye-well, goodbye fare-ye well
Oh, don't you hear the Old Man say
Ch: Hooraw, me boys, we're homeward bound!

We're homeward bound to Liverpool town,
Where them judies they will come down.

And when we gets to the Wallasea Gates,
Sally and Polly for their flash men do wait.

And one to the other ye'll hear them say,
Here comes Johnny with fourteen months pay.

Them girls there on Lime Street we soon hope to meet,
Soon we'll be rollin' both sides of the street.

We'll meet these fly gals and we'll ring the ol' bell,
With them judies we'll meet there we'll raise merry hell.

I'll tell me old mammy when I gets back home,
The girls there on Lime Street won't leave me alone.

We're homeward bound to the gals o' the town.
Stamp up me bullies an' heave it around.

And when we gets home, boys, oh won't we fly 'round,
We'll heave up the anchor to this bully sound.

We're a fine flashy packet and bound for to go,
With the gals on the towrope we cannot say no!

We're all homeward bound for the old backyard,
Then heave, me bullies, we're all bound homeward.

I wrote to my Kitty, she says she is well,
She rooms at the Astor and dines at the Bell.

Heave with a will, boys, oh heave good and strong,
Sing a good chorus for 'tis a good song.

We're homeward bound, we'll have ye to know,
And over the water to England must go.

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.

Lo, as the sun from his ocean bed rising
Wide o'er the water his glitt'ring beam throws,
Hark! from the masthead a voice cheer'ly crying,
"Hard on our lee-beam, a whale there she blows!"

Call up your sleepers then, larboard and starboard men,
Main yard a-back and your boats lower away,
Broad on our lee-beam, see the white water gleam,
Wreathing its foam in a garland of spray!

Lo, the leviathan in vastness is lying,
Making the ocean his voluptuous bed;
While o'er and around him the sea birds are flying,
Dark, foaming billows dash over his head.

Now each man watch with care, there goes his flukes in air;
Slowly but stately he sinks in the main.
Now peak your oars a while, rest from your weary toil,
Waiting and watching his rising again.

Now row, hearties, row as you love your salvation;
Row, hearties, row, let your reeking sweat flow.
Give to your blood a free circulation,
Bend to your oars, lads, give way all you know.

Now see each boat advance, eager to gain first chance,
Fleeting like shadows o’er the blue main.
"Stand up an' give him some, send both your irons home;
Cheerily stern all, trim the boat, give him the line."

Gallied and sore, fins and flukes in commotion,
Blackskin and boats are cleaving the spray,
While long, loud, and shrill winds his pipe o'er the ocean,
Frightened, bewildered, he brings to in dismay.

Now haul line, every man, gather in all you can,
As lances and spades from your thwarts clear away.
Now take your oars again, each and every man
As safely and surely we hold him in play.

The power of man o'er the king of the ocean
Is shown by the end when we gain our desire;
For a lance in his life creates a commotion.
Slowly he sinks with his chimney on fire.

Hear now the glad shout, from each and every seaman out,
Matching the billow's most turbulent roar.
From his spouthole on high, see the red signal fly.
Slowly he dies and the battle is o'er.