The Mariners' Rest

I come down to the Dover quay, my boots were full of holes,
(Heave away, me Dover boys!)
The gang-man looked me up and down and wrote me on his rolls,
(Heave away for the tide!)
Says he, "We don't pay by the day, my lad, we don't pay by the week —
You're paid a shilling on the tide, and it's the tide you'll seek."

So it's a shilling on the tide, my boys, a shilling on the tide,
Eight bob in a summer week and the tavern open wide!
But come the black of February, the packets lying still,
It's two bob and a herring, boys, and the landlord's slate to fill!

We've humped the southern wine for the factors' cellars through,
(Heave away, me Dover boys!)
The Ashcombe timber, Lyonnais silk, and the Crown's own boxes too,
(Heave away for the tide!)
And the clerk up in the Quay Office, he never wets his feet,
But he counts our tides upon his thumb, and he never counts them neat!

So it's a shilling on the tide, my boys, a shilling on the tide,
Eight bob in a summer week and the tavern open wide!
But come the black of February, the packets lying still,
It's two bob and a herring, boys, and the landlord's slate to fill!

Now the moon don't sign my wages and the sea don't keep my book,
(Heave away, me Dover boys!)
But she's an honest paymistress, whichever way you look,
(Heave away for the tide!)
She comes in twice, she goes out twice, she never once was late —
And that's more than you can say, my boys, for the gentlemen of state!

So it's a shilling on the tide, my boys, a shilling on the tide,
Eight bob in a summer week and the tavern open wide!
But come the black of February, the packets lying still,
It's two bob and a herring, boys, and the landlord's slate to fill!

There's a fog come down on the Kentish shore, there's a bell come back off the sand,
And the master's lost his reckoning a cable off the land;
She struck upon the evening tide and broke before the day,
And the parish come down to the shingle, boys, to carry her away!

Oh, it's six hours on the shingle, and the parish takes its share,
The rope, the spar, the brandy jar, the silk and the salted ware;
And the court may sit at Maidstone, and the court may say what it will,
But six hours on the shingle is the custom of Kent still!

The parson took the candles and the sexton took the bell,
The widow took the timbers for to build her roof as well,
The blacksmith took the anchor chain, the miller took the flour,
And the riding officer come along at the end of the sixth hour.

Oh, it's six hours on the shingle, and the parish takes its share,
The rope, the spar, the brandy jar, the silk and the salted ware;
And the court may sit at Maidstone, and the court may say what it will,
But six hours on the shingle is the custom of Kent still!

Says he, "I'm here for the cargo, lads, I'm not here for the row,"
And he looked along the empty beach and he scratched his wig and brow;
"Well, a cargo found's a cargo seized, and that's the Crown's own law —
And a cargo that ain't found, my lads, is a cargo nobody saw!"

Oh, it's six hours on the shingle, and the parish takes its share,
The rope, the spar, the brandy jar, the silk and the salted ware;
And the court may sit at Maidstone, and the court may say what it will,
But six hours on the shingle is the custom of Kent still!

But raise a glass for the master, boys, and raise a glass for his crew,
For the sands don't give back sailors the way they give back the brew;
We'll write them on the wreck roll, every name the sea has took —
For Kent will have the cargo, boys, but Kent will keep the book.

Oh, it's six hours on the shingle, and the parish takes its share,
The rope, the spar, the brandy jar, the silk and the salted ware;
And the court may sit at Maidstone, and the court may say what it will,
But six hours on the shingle is the custom of Kent still!

When the fog lies thick on the roads, my boys, and the sands begin to shift,
And the master's at his wits' end with the tide and the wind adrift,
There's a cutter comes out of Deal, my boys, as black as a parson's coat —
And who's that standing in the bow? It's the hat in the pilot boat!

So here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
Every child in Deal can tell it a mile across the foam;
Here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
For when you see that hat, my boys, you know you're coming home!

They've drawn her in the Packet, boys, and they've drawn her very bad,
With a face like a barnacled bollard and a temper like her dad;
But they never once got the hat wrong, for the hat is drawn with care,
And the hat's the only part of her you need to see out there.

So here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
Every child in Deal can tell it a mile across the foam;
Here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
For when you see that hat, my boys, you know you're coming home!

She's brought the morning packet through when the bell come back off the sand,
She's brought a Crown ship through the fog with the captain holding her hand;
And when he offered a sovereign, boys, she bit it, plain as that,
And said, "I'll take your coin, sir — but I'll never sell the hat!"

So here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
Every child in Deal can tell it a mile across the foam;
Here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
For when you see that hat, my boys, you know you're coming home!

And if ever the sea should keep her, boys, on a night when the bell rings flat,
We'll hang it up in the Grapnel, and we'll drink beneath the hat.

So here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
Every child in Deal can tell it a mile across the foam;
Here's to Maud Sandown's hat, my boys! (Maud Sandown's hat!)
For when you see that hat, my boys, you know you're coming home!