Forecastle song
Now come all you ladies gay, what robs sailors of their pay,
And list' while I sing this tarry tune,
When Jack Tar he comes ashore, with his gold an' silver store,
There's no one can get rid o' it so soon.
Now the first thing he demands is a fiddler to his hand,
A bottle of Nelson's Blood so stout an' warm.
And a pretty gal likewise with two dark an' rollin' eyes,
An' he'll drop his anchor an' never more will roam.
Then the landlady she comes in with her brand new crinoline,
She looks like some bright an' flashin' star,
An' she's ready to wait on him, if his pockets are lined with tin,
An' to chalk his score on the board behind the bar.
Then she calls a pretty maid, right-handed an' soft-laid,
An' up aloft they climb without much bother,
An' she shortens in her sail for a weatherin' of the gale,
An' soon in the tiers they're moored quite close together.
Then he shifted her main tack an' he caught her flat aback,
They rolled from the lee to the weather,
An' he laid her close 'longside, oh, closehauled as she would lie,
'Twas tack an' tack through hell an' stormy weather.
But his money soon was gone, an' his flash gal soon had flown,
She roamed along the Highway for another,
An' the landlady cried, "Pay yer score an' git outside,
Yer cargo's gone an' you've met stormy weather."
Then poor ol' Jack must understand that there's ships a-wantin' hands,
And to the Shadwell Basin he went down,
And he shipped away forlorn on a passage round the Horn,
Goodbye to the boys an' the flash gals of the town.
