A dry sheet and a lazy sea,
And a wind so far from fast
It barely floats the owner's flag
That flutters at the mast—
That flutters at the mast, my boys;
So while the sky is free
Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance
And venture out to sea.
The aneroid has dropped a tenth!
Back, back across the bar
To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,
And a big fat black cigar—
A big fat black cigar, my boys;
While, on an even keel,
The Swedish chef out-chefs himself
In getting up a meal.
Give me a soft and gentle wind,
A fleckless azure sky;
I care not for your "snoring breeze"
And dinners heaving high—
And dinners heaving high, my boys,
Make no great hit with me;
So when the breeze begins to snore
We'll not put out to sea.
There's laughter in yon beach hotel,
And summer girls a crowd;
And hark the music, mariners,
The band is piping loud!
The band is piping loud, my boys,
Bright eyes are flashing free.
Come, fly the owner's-absent flag
And join the revelry.