THE INDIFFERENT MARINER

I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care

A penny which way the wind is,

Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,

Or make a port at the Indies.

Some folks steer for a port to trade,

And some steer north for the whaling;

Yet never I care a damn just where

I sail, so long's I'm sailing.

You never can stop the wind when it blows,

And you can n't stop the rain from raining;

Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye

When there's no sort o’ use in complaining?

My face is browned and my lungs are sound,

And my hands they are big and calloused.

I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,

And a little bread and meat for ballast.

But I keep no log of my daily grog,

For what's the use o’ being bothered?

I drink a little more when the wind's offshore,

And most when the wind's from the no'th' ard.

Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill,

And my legs get weak and toddly,

At the jug I pull, and turn in full,

And sleep the sleep of the godly.

But whether I do or whether I do n't,

Or whether the jug's my failing,

It's never I care a damn just where

I sail, so long's I'm sailing.