Classic Poem

Oh, Stormy's gone, that good old man,
To my way hay, Stormalong, John!
Oh, poor old Stormy's dead and gone,
To my aye, aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong!

We dug his grave with a silver spade,
His shroud of the finest silk was made.

We lowered him with a silver chain,
Our eyes all dim with more than rain.

An able sailor, bold and true,
A good old bosun to his crew.

He's moored at last, and furled his sail,
No danger now from wreck or gale.

I wish I was old Stormy's son,
I'd build me a ship of a thousand ton.

I'd fill her up with New England rum,
And all my shellbacks they would have some.

I'd sail this wide world 'round and 'round,
With plenty of money I would be found.

Old Stormy's dead and gone to rest,
To my way hay, Stormalong, John!
Of all the sailors he was the best,
To my aye, aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong!