There’s a wooden path that the rovers know —
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Try her with the headsails! 
There’s a wooden path that the rovers know,
Where none come back, though many must go: 
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Lying with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the trader of Stepney town? —
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Every stick a-bending! 
Where is the trader of Stepney town? 
There’s gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown: 
   Ho for bully rover Jack,
   Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? —
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Every stitch a-drawing! 
Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? 
We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride: 
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Reaching on the weather tack,
Right across the Lowland sea!

So it’s up and its over to Stornoway Bay,
Pack it on!  Crack it on!  Try her with the stunsails! 
It’s off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,
Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay: 
   Waiting for their bully Jack,
   Watching for him sailing back,
Right across the Lowland sea.

A BALLAD OF THE RANKS

Who carries the gun? 
   A lad from over the Tweed. 
Then let him go, for well we know
   He comes of a soldier breed. 
So drink together to rock and heather,
   Out where the red deer run,
And stand aside for Scotland’s pride —
   The man that carries the gun! 
      For the Colonel rides before,
         The Major’s on the flank,
      The Captains and the Adjutant
         Are in the foremost rank. 
      But when it’s ‘Action front!’
         And fighting’s to be done,
      Come one, come all, you stand or fall
         By the man who holds the gun.

Who carries the gun? 
   A lad from a Yorkshire dale. 
Then let him go, for well we know
   The heart that never will fail. 
Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,
   And here’s to her soldier son! 
For the hard-bit north has sent him forth —
   The lad that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun? 
   A lad from a Midland shire. 
Then let him go, for well we know
   He comes of an English sire. 
Here’s a glass to a Midland lass,
   And each can choose the one,
But east and west we claim the best
   For the man that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun? 
   A lad from the hills of Wales. 
Then let him go, for well we know,
   That Taffy is hard as nails. 
There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,
   And of w’s more than one,
With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men,
   And it’s they who carry the gun.

Who carries the gun? 
   A lad from the windy west. 
Then let him go, for well we know
   That he is one of the best. 
There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,
   And Devon yields to none. 
Or you may get in Somerset
   Your lad to carry the gun.