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.

Love, I am sick for thee, sick with an absolute grief,
Sick with the thought of thy eyes and lips and bosom.
All the beauty I saw, I see to my hurt revealed.
All that I felt I feel to-day for my pain and sorrow.

Love, I would fain forget thee, hide thee in deeper night,
Shut thee where no thought is, in the grave with tears.
Love, I would turn my face to the wall and, if needs be, die;
Death less cruel were than thy eyes which have blinded me.

Since thou art gone from me, glory is gone from my life;
Dumb are the woods and streams, and dumb the voice of my soul;
Dead are the flowers we loved, blackened and sere with blight;
Earth is frost-bound under my foot where our foot-steps trod.

Give me back for my sorrow the days of senseless peace,
Days when I thought not of thee, or thought in wisdom;
Let me see thee once more as thou to my folly wert,
A woman senseless as sounding brass or as tinkling cymbal.

Why didst thou show me thy heart, which I thought not of?
Why didst thou bare me thy soul, who to me were soulless?
Why didst thou kiss my mouth, when my mouth did mock?
Why didst thou speak to my lips of love, ere my lips had spoken?

Love, thou hast made me thine, thine, and in my despite,
Laying thy hand on my heart in the soft Spring weather;
Love, thou hast bought my soul at a price, the price of thine,
Never again to mock at love, ah, never, never!