The moon on the ocean was dim'd be a ripple,
Affording a chequered light;
The gay, jolly tars pass'd the words for a tipple,
And the toast, for 'twas Saturday night.
Some sweetheart or wife, he lov'd as his life,
Each drank, and wish'd he could hail her;
But the standing toast that pleas'd the most,
Was "the wind that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor."
Some drank "The Queen," some "our brave ships,"
And some "the Constitution;"
Some, "may our foes and all such rips
Yield to English resolution!"
That fate might bless some Poll or Bess,
And that hey soon might hail her;
But the standing toast that pleased the most,
Was "the wind that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor."
Some drank "the Prince," and some "our land,"
This glorious land of Freedom;
Some, "that our tars may never want
Heroes bold to lead them;"
That she who's in distress may find
Such friends that ne'er will fail her;
But the standing toast that pleased the most,
Was "the wind that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor."
