"Ugh !" grunted the old sailor, "these 'ere shore 'ands can't sing chanties-not the real ole sea chanties." Oh, messmate at the microphone, you are no sailor lad;
The bark that you know most about is on a wind-blown tree ;
So, when you warble chanties, boy, you make me sore and sad,
For I'm a hard-shelled mariner, Bill Mizzentop. A.B. Your voice is fine and bonnie,
But not for Whisky Johnny,
So give us Annie Laurie, son, and Down in Tennessee. And Reuben Ranzo, mister, if you'll pardon what I say.
Is not the swab we knew him when he's wafted through the air.
Cast adrift that ancient whaler and trill a pleasant lay
Of gals that love a sailor, with a kiss or two to spare.
Away, Yon Rollin' River,
As you sing it, makes me shiver,
And a bucko mate would knife you and spoil you past repair. Pipe up of home and beauty and you'll still be friends with me,
Nor stop to Haul the Bowlin', for that needs the fo's'cle skill,
(Which is ship-shape Cape Horn gospel from Bill Mizzentop, A.B.,
A blushin' ole tarpaulin slopin' over with goodwill).
Strike up a stave, m' hearty,
That will brighten up the party--
But not an old sea chanty, if you want to pleasure Bill ! Notes From the NSW Newspaper The World's News 6 Oct 1937 p 14.