In the fog and the floes she has drifted forlorn;
Becalmed in the doldrums a week long she lay,
But the girls have got hold of her tow-rope to-day!"
Oh, hear the good Trade-wind a-singing aloud
His homeward-bound chantey in sheet and in shroud;
Oh, hear how he whistles in halliard and stay,
"The girls have got hold of the tow-rope to-day!"
And it's oh for the chops of the Channel at last,
The cheer that goes up when the tug-hawser's passed,
The mate's "That'll do," and a fourteen months' pay,