Me bully boys o’ Liverpool, I’ll have you to beware,
When ye sail in the packet ship, no dungaree jumpers wear;
But have a big monkey jacket all ready to your hand,
For there blows some cold nor’westers on the Banks of Newfoundland!

 

We’ll scrape her and we’ll scrub her
With holystone and sand,
And we think of them cold nor’westers
On the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

There was Jack Lynch from Ballynahinch, Mike Murphy and some more,
I tell ye where, they suffered like hell on the way to Baltimore;
They pawned their gear in Liverpool and they sailed as they did stand,
And there blows some cold nor’westers on the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

We’ll scrape her and we’ll scrub her
With holystone and sand,
And we think of them cold nor’westers
On the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

The mate he stood on the fo’c’sle head, and loudly he did roar:
“Now rattle her in, my lucky lads! We’re bound for America’s shore!
Go wash the mud off that dead-man’s face and heave to beat the band,
For there blows some cold nor’westers on the Banks of Newfoundland!”

 

We’ll scrape her and we’ll scrub her
With holystone and sand,
And we think of them cold nor’westers
On the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

So now it’s reef and reef, me boys, with the canvas frozen hard,
And it’s mount and pass every mother’s son on a ninety-foot tops’l yard.
Never mind about boots and oilskins, but haul or you’ll be damned!
For there blows some cold nor’westers on the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

We’ll scrape her and we’ll scrub her
With holystone and sand,
And we think of them cold nor’westers
On the Banks of Newfoundland.

 

And now we’re off the Hook, me boys, and the lands are white with snow,
But soon we’ll see the pay table and have all night below;
And on the docks, come down in flocks, them pretty girls will stand,
Saying, “It’s snugger with me than it is at sea on the Banks of Newfoundland.”