From packet and clipper, from Royal destroyer,

with prayer and with hymn

and a rum-drenched Amen,                                                                              

goodbye to the matelot and captain;

so long to the boatswain and master.

We're chanting to ease up the passing.

 

The last one is sung in a million tongues.

Grief-soaked and lonesome

haul hard on the Solent.

The last one is sung by them all.

 

A plash of committal. The lash of the wind

on castanet skeletons, fishes who swim

with the daddies and grandads

o'er Horse and Dean Sand,

to the fort there at Spitbank,

in caskets so grand.

We're chanting to ease up the passing.

 

The last one is sung in a million tongues,

salty and free,

in full liberty.

The last one is sung by them all.

 

You riggers and stokers set sail to drop anchor

where lads can relax, and the rations are massive,

and backs never lashed

nor words ever spoken in anger.

We're chanting to ease up the passing.

 

The last one is sung in a million tongues,

no work to be done,               

no work to be done.                             

The last one is sung by them all.

 

They roll and they pitch and they whistle and drift;

white horses to roam

and ride them to home,

to sleep in the ocean and sing everlasting.

We're chanting to ease up the passing.

 

The last one is sung by a million tongues.

We'll lie here forever

and rock in the weather.                                                                    

The last one is sung by them all.