The Liner she’s a lady, an’ she never looks nor ’eeds—
The Man-o’-War’s ’er ’usband, an’ ’e gives ’er all she needs;
But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun’,
They’re just the same as you an’ me a-plyin’ up an’ down!

Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, ’angin’ round the Yard,
All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ’Ard;
Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old—
Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!

The Liner she’s a lady by the paint upon ’er face,
An’ if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace:
The Man-o’-War’s ’er ’usband, and ’e’s always ’andy by,
But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they’ve got to load or die.

The Liner she’s a lady, and ’er route is cut an’ dried;
The Man-o’-War’s ’er ’usband, an’ ’e always keeps beside;
But, oh, the little cargo-boats that ’aven’t any man,
They’ve got to do their business first, and make the most they can!

The Liner she’s a lady, and if a war should come,
The Man-o’-War’s ’er ’usband, and ’e’d bid ’er stay at ’ome;
But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!
’E’d ’ave to up an’ fight for them, for they are England’s pride.

The Liner she’s a lady, but if she wasn’t made,
There still would be the cargo-boats for ’ome an’ foreign trade.
The Man-o’-War’s ’er ’usband, but if we wasn’t ’ere,
’E wouldn’t have to fight at all for ’ome an’ friends so dear.

’Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, ’angin’ round the Yard,
All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ’Ard;
Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old—
’Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!
But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, —
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, —
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.