When up the shrouds the sailors go

When up the shrouds the sailors go, And venture on the yard, The landsmen who no better know, Believe their lot is hard.

Bold Jack, he smiles, each danger meets, Weighs anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drinks his can of grog.

When winds 'gainst waves and quick-sands roll, You'll ne'er hear him repine; Tho' he's on Greenland's icy shore, Or burning on the line. Bold Jack, &c.

If to engage he gets the word, To quarters he'll repair; Now sinking in the briny flood; Or quiv'ring in the air. Bold Jack, &c.

When sailing orders do arrive, Bold Jack he takes his leave; He says, my dear, my sweetest Poll, What causes you to grieve. Bold Jack, &c.

Thy Jack will daily take his can Of grog and drink to thee, In hopes that thou wilt ne'er forget, Thy sailor who's at sea. Bold Jack, &c.

But shouldst thou false or fickle prove, To Jack who loves you dear, No more upon his native shore, With joy can he appear. Bold Jack, &c.

But restless as the briny main, Must heartless heave the log: Slow, trim the sails, and strive to drown His grief with cans of grog. Bold Jack, &c.