89 - Stormalong John

Stormy’s gone that good old man

Way, stormalong, John!

O, poor old Stormy’s dead and gone,

Way hay, mister. Stormalong John!

We dug his grave with a silver spade,
His shroud of the finest silk was made.

We lowered him with a silver chain,
Our eyes all dim with more than rain.

An able sailor, bold and true,
A good old Bosun to his crew.

He’s moored at last, and furled his sail,
No danger now from wreck or gale.

I wish I was old Stormy’s son,
I’d build me a ship of a thousand ton.

I’d fill her up with New England rum,
And all my shellbacks they would have some.

I’d sail this wide world 'round and 'round,
With plenty of money I would be found.

Old Stormy’s dead and gone to rest,
Of all the sailors he was the best.