To keep her sorry tongue from any speaking
When her clothes fall to a bundle
And she's scarce above the gunwales
And this is how you're fed
A gag is placed between her lips
Kindred, kith or kin or she'll end up dead
Through the lights of beacon street
And if you listen, you can hear her weeping
So be kind to your mother, though she may seem
And they tell her not to say a thing to cousin
Till at last she's satisfied the lot of the
And the snow is softly falling on her petticoats
See how they approach
Or screaming and they row her out to packets where
Her ankles clasped, her arms so rudely pinioned
And they throw her dirty dollars
An awful bother and the next time she tries to feed you
She's weeping, 'cause the gentlemen are calling
And return her to the habor where she goes to bed
And she's standing in the harbour
And she's laid in bed on the upper deck
And she's waiting for the sailors in the jolly boat
The sailor's sorry racket calls for maidenhead
And so she goes from ship to ship
Till she's safe within their keeping
Marina's teeming minions and their opinions
With dirty hands and trousers torn they grapple
