He is jolly as a sandboy, he is happier than a king,
And his trawler is the darling of his heart
(With her cuddy like a cupboard where a kitten couldn't swing,
And a smell of fish that simply won't depart);
He has found upon occasion sundry targets for his guns;
He could tell you tales of mine and submarine;
Oh, the holes he's in and out of and the glorious risks he runs
Turn his son—who's in a Super-Dreadnought—green.
He is fit as any fiddle; he is hearty, hale and tanned;
He is proof against the coldest gales that blow;