O the times are hard and the wages low,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
I think it's time for us to go!
An' it's time for us to leave her!

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!
For the voyage is done an' the winds don't blow,
An' it's time for us to leave her!

O I thought I heard the old man say,
Tomorrow ye will get your pay!

It's Liverpool Pat with his tarpaulin hat,
It's Yankee John the packet rat

It's rotten beef an' weev'ly bread,
It's pump or drown the old man said

The wind was foul an' the sea ran high,
She shipped it green an' none went by

We'd be better off in a nice clean gaol,
With all night in an' plenty o' ale!

The mate was a bucko an' the old man a turk,
The bosun was a beggar with the middle name o' work!

It's growl yer may an' go yer must,
It matters not whether yer last or furst!

The cook's a drunk, he likes to booze,
\&'tween him an' the mate there's little to choose!

I hate to sail on this rotten tub,
No grog allowed and rotten grub!

The ship won't steer, or stay, or wear,
An' so us shellbacks learnt to swear

No Liverpool bread, nor rotten crackerhash,
No dandyfunk, nor cold an' sloppy hash

The old man shouts, the pumps stand by,
Oh, we can never suck her dry

Now I thought I hear the old man say,
Just one more pull an' then belay

We swear by rote for want o' more,
But now we're through so we'll go on shore