I likes a hearty grubber;
But, shiver me, it's getting cold,
So take the helm, you lubber.
Come, Poll, my buxom wench make sail,
I'm one as never fears man,
To reach our port we cannot fail
With such an able steersman.
Then come, old Boy, there's nought to pay,
For I will be your banker;
Nor do I care how long you stay