The Indifferent Mariner

I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care
    A penny which way the wind is,
Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,
    Or make a port at the Indies.

Some folks steer for a port to trade,
    And some steer north for the whaling;
Yet never I care a damn just where
    I sail, so long's I'm sailing.

You never can stop the wind when it blows,
    And you can't stop the rain from raining;
Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye
    When there's no sort o' use in complaining?

My face is browned and my lungs are sound,
    And my hands they are big and calloused.
I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,
    And a little bread and meat for ballast.

But I keep no log of my daily grog,
    For what's the use o' being bothered?
I drink a little more when the wind's offshore,
    And most when the wind's from the no'th'ard.

Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill,
    And my legs get weak and toddly,
At the jug I pull, and turn in full,
    And sleep the sleep of the godly.

But whether I do or whether I don't,
    Or whether the jug's my failing,
It's never I care a damn just where
    I sail, so long's I'm sailing.