Oh Stormy's gone, that good old man
Way hay, Stormalong!
Oh, poor old Stormy's dead and gone
Aye, aye, Mister Stormalong!

We dug his grave with a silver spade
His shroud of finest silk was made

We lowered him with a silver chain
Our eyes all dim with more than rain

An able sailor, bold and true,
A good old bosun to his crew

He's moored at last, and furled his sail
No danger now from wreck or gale

I wish I was old Stormy's son
I'd build me a ship of a thousand ton

I'd fill her up with New England rum
And all my shellbacks they would have some

I'd sail this wide world 'round and 'round
With plenty of money I would be found

Old Stormy's dead and gone to rest
Of all the sailors he was the best!