The capstan is already mann’d. Shall we hear the boatswain hollow? Sometimes he is listening at a stand To hear the answers follow. We have not brought to, there’s such ado, While some are calling the swabbers. Now heave away without delay, Boys, hold on the nippers. The boatswain and his mates are piping, Crying, ‘Men, have a rally,’ And often forward they are piking To have a rout in the galley. ‘What are you about? Away with us out.’ To leave our victuals we abhor it; With cuffs and knocks leave kettles and pots, And the Devil cuff them for it. ‘Heave and in sight, men, heave away,’ From forward the boatswain is calling; ‘Heave a turn or two without delay; Stand by the capstan for pealing.’ Then one and all to the catt do fall; We haul both strong and able, Till presently from forward they cry, ‘Below, stick out the cable.’ We cast our anchors then with speed, And nimbly press the stoppers, Then next to fish it we proceed, Our shank-painter so proper, Which we do pass securely fast, And lap well on a seizing, Our anchors, be sure, can’t be too secure; It stands to sense and reason. When once our ship she is unmoor’d Our swelling sails so neatly, With fore-tack and main-tack also, Our sheets haul’d aft completely, Then away we sail with a fresh gale, On a voyage or on a station. Like English hearts we’ll play our parts In defence of the English nation. The best cry we like to hear On board, as I’m a sinner, Is when from the quarter-deck they call To the boatswain to pipe to dinner. Such crowding then among the men: Some grumble, others jangle; You’re nobody there without you swear And boldly stand the wrangle. There’s green-horn fellows some on board Before ne’er saw salt water; When come to sea, upon my word, The case with them does alter. They better know how to follow the plow, With good fat bacon and cabbage; When sea-sick took like death they look, Ready to bring up guts and garbage. When stormy winds begin to blow Our ship is in great motion; To carry our victuals safe down below It requires a good notion. We often fall down the hatchway with all, From the top to the bottom sprawling; Such laughing then among the men, And loudly the butcher calling. There are snotty boys of midshipmen Han’t done yet shitting yellow; As to their age, some hardly ten Strike many a brave fellow, Who dare not prate at any rate, Nor seem in the least to mumble; They’ll frap you still, do what you will; It is but a folly to grumble.