Breasting The Waves

Breasting The Waves

The lusty wench and the errant sailor are a classic theme in folk song. Sometimes he leaves her to weep and mourn for her own wanton ways. Sometimes she finds a way to win his heart to stay with her. In this case first she floats his boat, and then she sinks it.

Breasting The Waves appears on Sid's album Boiled In The Bag and in his book Cod Pieces

I'm only a poor girl, but I've been treated bad,

Six months have I courted a young sailor lad;

With his oar in the rowlock he fair takes my heart,

Then hoists his Blue Peter, and to sea does depart.

Well, if I was a blackbird I'd whistle and sing,

I'd chirp and I'd chatter and that sort of thing

From dawn in the morning to last thing at night

Till it drove him stark raving, and serve him quite right!

I love him, I love him, with love so profound;

I pant for his lusts, and the other way round.

My love's tall and handsome in every degree

With bells on his fingers and rings in his knee

With his mast in the crows nest he calls me his dear,

Then he fires the maroon and soon he isn't here.

So if I was a seagull I'd fly overhead - I

Would practice my aim, now, until it was dead-eye;

And if he should point at me there with his rifle,

Why then I'd fire first, and he'd soon get an eye-full

I love him, I love him - it couldn't be worse

But if he'll breast the waves, then I'll do the reverse.

My love said we'd marry when he did return

But he's just signed on for two more years I learn.

With his plank in the gangway he swears he'll be mine,

But then he goes off with his mates on the brine.

Oh if I was a parrot I'd fly 'cross the sky,

Until my love's ship on the sea I did spy;

From hiding I'd call "Who's a pretty boy then"

Until he grew nervous of all of the men.

I love him, I love him, whatever he do,

Oh, it's hard to be good, and the contrary too.

Now my love's returning all on the next tide,

And soon he will make me his own charming bride;

His gear in the locker he surely will stow

And once he's in my quarters I won't let him go!

If I were a woodpecker I'd fly to the strand,

I'd find my love's tug as she waited there, and

I'd peck holes in her stern - I'd peck holes in her bow,

Singing "Let's see you go off to sea again now!".

I love him, I love him, as he will discover;

If he bawls for his tug why then I'll do the other.