He walks the deck with swaggering gait,
(There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through,
With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show
For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’
To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself,
And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine?
For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request;
But if he’s caught you may depend
He’ll dangle high at the business end