Why (worldlings) do ye trust fraile honours dreams?
And leane to guilted Glories which decay?
Why doe yee toyle to registrate your Names
On icie Pillars, which soone melt away?
True Honour is not heere, that place it clames,
Where blacke-brow'd Night doth not exile the Day,
Nor no farre-shining Lamp dives in the Sea,
But an eternall Sunne spreades lasting Beames:
There it attendeth you, where spotlesse Bands
Of Spirits, stand gazing on their Soveraigne Blisse,
Where yeeres not hold it in their canckring hands,
But who once noble, ever noble is.
Looke home, lest hee your weakned Wit make thrall,
Who Edens foolish Gardner earst made fall.

Come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me,
And never leave your happy homes to sail the raging sea,
For I have ploughed the raging main this twenty years or more,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

When war at first assail'd us I quickly left my trade,
Our country was in danger, I flew to lend my aid.
And in my country's service, long, long fatigues I bore,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

By storms and raging tempest shipwreck'd three times I've been,
And many a bloody battle upon the seas I've seen;
I've seen the cannon's glaring flash, I've heard its murderous roar,
Tho' now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

The British seaman's valour to all the world is known,
We conquer still where'er we go, the action is our own.
The meteor flag of England triumphantly we bore;
But now we are turned adrift to starve upon our native shore.

Should hostile fleets e'er venture upon the raging main,
True hearts of oak we British Tars we'll push to sea again;
And bravely bring their ships to port as we have done before.
So help us now while we're in want upon our native shore.

Come pity, ye gentle strangers, a luckless British Tar,
In your defence he yet may hurl the thunderbolts of war.
Come lend some kind assistance, and heaven will bless your store,
For now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.