I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care
A penny which way the wind is,
Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,
Or make a port at the Indies.
Some folks steer for a port to trade,
And some steer north for the whaling;
Yet never I care a damn just where
I sail, so long's I'm sailing.
You never can stop the wind when it blows,
And you can n't stop the rain from raining;
Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye
When there's no sort o’ use in complaining?
My face is browned and my lungs are sound,
And my hands they are big and calloused.
I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,
And a little bread and meat for ballast.
But I keep no log of my daily grog,
For what's the use o’ being bothered?
I drink a little more when the wind's offshore,
And most when the wind's from the no'th' ard.
Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill,
And my legs get weak and toddly,
At the jug I pull, and turn in full,
And sleep the sleep of the godly.
But whether I do or whether I do n't,
Or whether the jug's my failing,
It's never I care a damn just where
I sail, so long's I'm sailing.