His hair it does in ringlets hang, his eyes as black as sloes,
May happiness attend him wherever he goes,
From Tower Hill, down to Blackwall, I will wander, weep and moan,
All for my jolly sailor bold, until he does return.
My father is a merchant—the truth I now will tell,
And in great London City in opulence doth dwell,
His fortune doth exceed ₤300,000 in gold,
And he frowns upon his daughter, 'cause she loves a sailor bold.
My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,
There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.