(Verse 1) The anchor’s bit the harbor mud and the sails are neatly furled We’ve survived the gales and the whales and the wails of the watery world. My pockets are heavy with silver coin and my throat is a dusty road So I’m heading down to the Salty Dog to lighten up the load. Roll me in through the swinging doors and set me on a bench I’ve got a thirst that a thousand rains could never hope to quench. (Chorus) So pass the jar and tip it back 'til the world begins to spin We’ll drown the ghost of the North Atlantic in a river of dark-oak gin. Let the fiddle scream and the table shake and the foaming mugs run dry We’ll drink until the moon goes pale and the sun climbs up the sky. I’ve got a week of wages, boys, and a liver made of brass So keep 'em coming steady 'til the bottom of the glass. (Verse 2) The boatswain’s got a barrel and he’s drinking for a crew The gunner’s seeing double and the cook is seeing blue. Old Shorty’s dancing on the bar with a bottle in each hand Forgetting all the misery of a month away from land. It beats the smell of bilge-water and the taste of salted beef To find a bit of liquid joy and a moment of relief. (Chorus) So pass the jar and tip it back 'til the world begins to spin We’ll drown the ghost of the North Atlantic in a river of dark-oak gin. Let the fiddle scream and the table shake and the foaming mugs run dry We’ll drink until the moon goes pale and the sun climbs up the sky. I’ve got a week of wages, boys, and a liver made of brass So keep 'em coming steady 'til the bottom of the glass. (Verse 3) If I should fall beneath the board and start to snore away Just leave me where the sawdust lies until the break of day. Don't bother with the surgeon and don't bother with the law I’m the happiest man in Portsmouth with a pillow made of straw. But as long as I can find my mouth and the landlord’s got a light I’m staying on this heading for the remainder of the night. (Chorus) So pass the jar and tip it back 'til the world begins to spin We’ll drown the ghost of the North Atlantic in a river of dark-oak gin. Let the fiddle scream and the table shake and the foaming mugs run dry We’ll drink until the moon goes pale and the sun climbs up the sky. I’ve got a week of wages, boys, and a liver made of brass So keep 'em coming steady 'til the bottom of the glass.

The Portsmouth Drinking Song