  I’ve been ploughin’ down in Devonshire, My folks would have me stay, Where the wheat grows on th’ dune side, Where th’ scamperin’ rabbits play. But th’ smells come from th’ ocean, An’ th’ twitterin’ swallows wheel, As th’ little sails bob landwards, To th’ scurryin’ sea-gulls’ squeal. Oh, it’s gold, gold, gold, That’s temptin’ me from here. An’ it’s rum, rum, rum, That makes me know no fear. When th’ man-o-war is growlin’, As her for’ard swivels roar, As th’ decks are black with wounded, An’ are runnin’ red with gore. I’ve been goin’ to church o’ Sundays, An’ th’ Parson sure can talk, He’s been pleadin’ for my soul, Sir, In Paradise to walk. An’ I kind o’ have th’ shivers, Come creepin’ down my spine, When th’ choir breaks into music, While th’ organ beats th’ time. But it’s gold, gold, gold, That glitters in my eye, An’ it’s rum, rum, rum, That makes me cheat an’ lie, When th’ slaver’s in th’ doldrums, Th’ fleet is closin’ round, An’ th’ Captain calls out, furious, “Now, run th’ hound aground!” No matter how I farm, Sir, No matter how I hoe, Th’ breezes from th’ blue, Sir, Just kind uv make me glow. An’ their bellyin’ sails go past, I just leave my team an’ swear, Sir, I’ll ship before th’ mast. For it’s gold, gold, gold, That makes me shiver, like, An’ it’s rum, rum, rum, That makes me cut an’ strike, When th’ boarders creep across th’ rail, Their soljers all in line, An’ their pistols spittin’ lead, Sir, Like er bloomin’ steam engine. So I’ll kiss my plough good-bye, Sir, I’ll throw my scythe away, An’ I’m goin’ to th’ dock, Sir, Where th’ ships are side th’ quay. Shake out th’ skull an’ cross-bones, Take out th’ signs of Marque, An’ let’s cut loose an’ forage, In a rakish ten-gun barque. |
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