Oh I'll Be Chewing Salted Horse And Biting Flinty Bread, And Dancing With The Stars To Watch, Upon The Fo'C'S'Le Head, Hearkening To The Bow-Wash And The Welter Of The Tread Of A Thousand Tons Of Clipper Running Free. For The Tug Has Got The Tow-Rope And Will Take Us To The Downs, Her Paddles Churn The River-Wrack To Muddy Greens And Browns, And I Have Given River-Wrack And All The Filth Of Towns For The Rolling, Combing Cresters Of The Sea. We'll Sheet The Mizzen-Royals Home And Shimmer Down The Bay, The Sea-Line Blue With Billows, The Land-Line Blurred And Grey; The Bow-Wash Will Be Piling High And Thrashing Into Spray, As The Hooker'S Fore-Foot Tramples Down The Swell. She'll Log A Giddy Seventeen And Rattle Out The Reel, The Weight Of All The Run-Out Line Will Be A Thing To Feel, As The Bacca-Quidding Shell-Back Shambles Aft To Take The Wheel, And The Sea-Sick Little Middy Strikes The Bell.