Now farewell, my trim three-decker,
Sails and spars and all farewell;
Iron's proved of wood a wrecker,
Where 'twill steer us who can tell?
In glorious Nelson's days, d'ye mind them,
Our tars were sailors every inch:
Stout hearts, with pigtails stout behind them,
And ne'er a man to skulk or flinch.
But now—my dear eyes! British sailors
Half soldiers and half stokers are;