Her mast is made of a very long thorn;
She's a bell for the fog, and a cricket's horn,
And a spider spun her sail.
Heigh ho!
A spider he spun her sail.
She carries a cargo of baby souls,
And she crosses the terrible Nightmare Shoals,
On her way to the Isles of Rest,
Heigh ho!
The beautiful Isles of Rest.
The Slumber Sea is the sea she sails,
While the skipper tells his incredible tales
With many a merry jest.
Ho! ho!
He's fond of a merry jest.
When the little folks yawn they're ready to go,
And the skipper is lifting his sail—he ho!
In the swell how the little folks nod!
Ha! ha!
Just see how the little folks nod!
And some have sailed off when the sky was all black.
And the poor little sailors have never come back,
But have steered for the City of God.
Heigh ho!
The beautiful City of God.