(Verse 1) Clear the decks and sand the boards, there’s a Frenchman on the bow We’ve got sixty iron teeth to show 'em exactly how. Heave the round-shot from the locker, douse the galley fire The Captain’s on the quarterdeck and preaching for the choir. The powder-monkey’s sweating grease, the master’s at the wheel We’re closing up the weather-gauge to give 'em a taste of steel. (Chorus) So haul away the bowling, boys, and run the guns to port The channel’s wide, the powder’s dry, and life is getting short. Let the grape and canister go whistling through the air We’ll leave 'em in a hulk of smoke and a tattered quiet prayer. It’s a broadside for the breakfast and a splinter for the knee Just another bloody Tuesday on the heavy-rolling sea. (Verse 2) The boatswain’s pipe is screaming loud, the topsails start to tear There’s a smell of burning oakum and sulfur in the air. The first mate’s got a cutlass and he’s looking for a neck As the mainmast starts to buckle and to shower down the deck. We’ve raked 'em from the stern-post 'til the scuppers ran with red Now the surgeon’s in the cockpit with a bucket for the dead. (Chorus) So haul away the bowling, boys, and run the guns to port The channel’s wide, the powder’s dry, and life is getting short. Let the grape and canister go whistling through the air We’ll leave 'em in a hulk of smoke and a tattered quiet prayer. It’s a broadside for the breakfast and a splinter for the knee Just another bloody Tuesday on the heavy-rolling sea. (Verse 3) Grappling irons are biting hard, the boarding netting’s down We’re fighting for the prize-money and the glory of the Crown. Pistol smoke and boarding pikes and the ring of heavy blade This is how a sailor’s pittance is truly earned and paid. We’ve struck their colors for 'em and we’ve tossed the dead away Now we’re limping back to Portsmouth for a month of double pay. (Chorus) So haul away the bowling, boys, and run the guns to port The channel’s wide, the powder’s dry, and life is getting short. Let the grape and canister go whistling through the air We’ll leave 'em in a hulk of smoke and a tattered quiet prayer. It’s a broadside for the breakfast and a splinter for the knee Just another bloody Tuesday on the heavy-rolling sea. (Outro) Splice the main-brace. Stow the gear. There’s a gallon in the tavern. And a girl to call you dear. Yeah, the Frenchy’s at the bottom. And we’re still here

The King’s Shilling