I'm A Tough Old Salt, And It's Never I Care A Penny Which Way The Wind Is, Or Whether I Sight Cape Finisterre, Or Make A Port At The Indies. Some Folks Steer For A Port To Trade, And Some Steer North For The Whaling; Yet Never I Care A Damn Just Where I Sail, So Long'S I'm Sailing. You Never Can Stop The Wind When It Blows, And You Can't Stop The Rain From Raining; Then Why, Oh, Why, Go A-Piping Of Your Eye When There'S No Sort O' Use In Complaining? My Face Is Browned And My Lungs Are Sound, And My Hands They Are Big And Calloused. I've A Little Brown Jug I Sometimes Hug, And A Little Bread And Meat For Ballast. But I Keep No Log Of My Daily Grog, For What's The Use O' Being Bothered? I Drink A Little More When The Wind'S Offshore, And Most When The Wind'S From The No'Th'Ard. Of Course With A Chill If I'm Took Quite Ill, And My Legs Get Weak And Toddly, At The Jug I Pull, And Turn In Full, And Sleep The Sleep Of The Godly. But Whether I Do Or Whether I Don't, Or Whether The Jug'S My Failing, It's Never I Care A Damn Just Where I Sail, So Long'S I'm Sailing.