The Shanty of Stephen Porter

The weather beats against the pane
 Forsaken hostelry
The broadcast forecast squally rain
 The wireless. BBC
"Westerlies of eight or nine"
 The wild Irish sea.
With skipper Scott we wait in line
 To sail to Anglesey

So batten down the hatches boys 
We're leaving Mr Porter
And if we make it through the storm 
I'll ask thee for thy daughter

The sea a torrid swash of white
 A steaming salty hell
The vessel slews from left to right
 The latitude of swell
The line between the sea and sky
  That sways so violently
The waves that swill the boat so high
 Contempt. Impunity

So cling on to the wheel house boys
We're crossing troubled water
And if we make it through the storm 
 I'll ask thee for thy daughter

His hair the white of sea gull's hues
 That follow in the churn
His eyes a sea of green and blues
 That fix upon the stern
The shanties from his salt bit lips
 The storm won't break his will
His weathered hands the knotted grips
 That hold his timber still

So pray for sun and fortune boys 
We're nowt but lambs to slaughter
And if we make it through the storm 
I'll ask thee for thy daughter

From the wheel house they each wheel out
 Those wretched souls in turn
They crawl about and retch and shout
 As boat rolls bow to stern
And just when hope turns as the tide
 The land ahoy we see
The sea dog Stephen grinning wide
 Strength in adversity

So crack a bottle open boys 
And drink to Mr Porter
And since we made it through the storm 
I'll ask thee for thy daughter