Rolling Stone Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

I ain't a-goin' to sign in this ship, sonny,
Nor sail in 'er no more:
I'm goin' to mosey round an' spend my money
An' 'ave my run ashore,
An' then look for a ship that's bound somewheres
As I've never been afore.

It ain't as I've got anythink agin 'er
Of any sort or kind,
It ain't as I 'aven't 'ad as good times in 'er
As any I can mind;
It ain't as I 'aven't 'ad as good shipmates
As a man 'ud wish to find.

It's just that I'm fed up with things an' places,
An' all the blessed show,
An' what I want 's a fresh lot o' chaps' faces
An' a ship as I don't know,
An' different grub an' a strange berth to lie in
An' somewheres else to go.

I've always been that way since I was a nipper
An' 'ooked it off to sea,
Or I daresay by now I'd 'a' been a skipper,
Or a mate at least maybe,
But if I could I wouldn't do no different
(Which I couldn't, bein' me!)

An' I ain't a-goin' to sign again, sonny,
In this old ship no more:
I'm goin' to mosey round an' spend my money
An' 'ave my run ashore,
An' then I'll look for a ship that's goin' somewheres
As I 'aven't been afore . . .