The times we spent aboard her, they was oftener bad than good, But bad or good, we’d live the lot all over if we could; She’s stood her trick as well as us, she’s had her whack of fun, She’s shared it all with sailormen, and poor old ship, she’s done. Hard times and soft times and all times we’ve been with her, Bad days and good days and all sorts we’ve seen with her, And, poor old ship, she’s done!
She’s stuck her crazy derricks up by half a hundred quays, She’s dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas; Her funnels caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in the sun, She’s moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she’s done. North seas and south, and they’ve all had a go at her, Hot winds and cold, and they’ve all had a blow at her, And, poor old ship, she’s done!
She’s trailed her smudge the whole world round in weather gray and blue, She’s churned a dozen oceans with her bloomin’ nine-knot screw; She’s sampled all the harbor mud from Cardiff to Canton, And she’ll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, she’s gone. Ports up and down, and she’s seen many a score of ’em; Seas high and low, and she won’t sail no more of ’em, For, poor old ship, she’s gone!
And chaps that knowed her in her time, ’tween London and Rangoon, In many a sailor’s drinking-place and water-front saloon, Will set their drinks down when they hear her bloomin’ yarn is spun, And say, “I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, she’s done. Many’s the hard word I once used to spend on her, Ah, them was the great days, and now there’s an end on her, Poor old ship, she’s done!”
The Colonel has a job to do That’s really hard, and puzzling, too; He can’t quite figure what it needs, So hands it out to Major Heeds.
And Major Heeds he thinks it o’er, And thinks it o’er and o’er some more, And he can’t make it out at all, So Captain Jones, he takes a fall.
The Captain shoves his helmet back, And puts his brains all on the rack; But “D--n” is all that can be said, And then it’s up to First Loot Head.
O’ course, he “knows,” but hasn’t time-- The work they shove on him’s a crime; This, and then lots more to boot, So on it goes to the Second Loot.
Now Lieutenant Young is just a kid, A baby mouth by an eyebrow hid; A job like that would knock him cold, He hands it down to Top-soak Gold.