The wind from East to South has shifted,
The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted,
And broad on the larboard bow are seen
A full-rigged ship and a brigantine,
With a topsail schooner in between—
All bound to London Town.
The ship with a golden freight is freighted,
The old brigantine with coal is weighted,
The schooner's a slippery privateer,
With roguish rig and a saucy sheer—
Her cargo is guns and hearts of cheer—
All bound to London Town.
A Frenchman out of old Brest is cruising,

"A chance," says he, "there's no refusing.
I will drive that privateer away;
The ship and the brig will be my prey,
For we don't meet prizes every day—
All bound to London Town."
Then, crowding sail, on the wind he hurried;
The ship and the brig they worried and scurried.
The privateer, with her canvas short,
Just showed a muzzle at every port,
For she'd a crew of the fighting sort—
When bound to London Town.
The Frenchman tacked the weather gauge after;
The privateer cut the sea abaft her;
Before she had time to ease a turn
They drove a broadside into her stern,
For fighting's a trade one's apt to learn—
When bound to London Town.
Then side by side with their guns they pounded,

Till catching a puff the schooner rounded,
And ere they had way to do the like,
She laid them aboard with blade and pike,
So what could the Brestman do but strike—
And go to London Town?
The wind from East to the South has shifted,
The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted,
And broad on the larboard bow are seen
A privateer and a brigantine,
With a captured Frenchman in between—

All bound to London Town.