Come all you warlike seamen that to the seas belong;
I'll tell you of a fight, my boys, on board the Nottingham.
It was of an Irish captain, his name was Somerville,
With courage bold he did control, he played his part so well.
'Twas on the eighth of June, my boys, when at Spithead we lay,
On board there came an order, our anchors for to weigh.
Bound for the coast of Ireland, our orders did run so:
For us to cruise and not refuse against a daring foe.
We had not sailed many leagues at sea before a ship we spied.
She being some lofty Frenchman come a-bearing down so wide.
We hailed her in French, my boys, she asked from whence we came.
Our answer was, "From Liverpool, and London is our name."
"Oh pray are you some man-of-war, oh pray, what may you be?"
Oh then replied our captain, "And that you soon shall see.
Come and strike your English colours or else you shall bring to.
Since you're so stout, you shall give out, or else we will sink you."
The first broadside we gave to them, it made them for to wonder.
Their mainmast and their rigging too come a-rattling down like thunder.
It drove them from their quarters, they could no longer stay.
Our guns did roar, we made so sure we showed them British play.
So now we've sunk that ship, my boys, God speed to us fair wind
That we might sail to Plymouth town if the heavens prove so kind.
We'll drink a health unto our captain and to all such warlike souls.
To him we'll drink, and never flinch, out of a flowing bowl.