Says the parson one day, as I cursed the crew
‘Do you know, me lad, that we call it a sin!
I fear of you sailors there are but few
St. Peter, to heaven, will ever let in.’
Says I, ‘Mr. Parson, to tell you me mind,
No sailors to knock were ever yet seen,
Those who travel by land may steer ’gainst wind,
But we shape a course for Fiddler’s Green.’
For Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true
When here they’ve done their duty
The bowl of grog shall still renew
And pledge to love and beauty
Says the parson, ‘I hear you’ve married three wives?
Now do you not know that that is a sin?
You sailors, you lead such very bad lives,
St. Peter, to heaven, will ne’er let you in.’
‘Parson’, says I, ‘in each port I’ve but one,
And never had more, wherever I’ve been;
Below I’m obliged to be chaste as a nun,
But I’m promised a dozen at Fiddler’s Green.’
Says the parson, says he, ‘You’re drunk, my man!
And do you not know that that is a sin?
If you sailors will ever be swinging your can,
To heaven you surely will never get in.’
‘Parson, you may as well be mum,
’Tis only on shore I’m this way seen;
But oceans of punch, and rivers of rum,
Await the sailor at Fiddler’s Green.’