The Indifferent Mariner

I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care         A penny which way the wind is,      Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,         Or make a port at the Indies.      Some folks steer for a port to trade,         And some steer north for the whaling;      Yet never I care a damn just where         I sail, so long's I'm sailing.      You never can stop the wind when it blows,         And you can't stop the rain from raining;      Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye         When there's no sort o' use in complaining?      My face is browned and my lungs are sound,         And my hands they are big and calloused.      I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,         And a little bread and meat for ballast.      But I keep no log of my daily grog,         For what's the use o' being bothered?      I drink a little more when the wind's offshore,         And most when the wind's from the no'th'ard.      Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill,         And my legs get weak and toddly,      At the jug I pull, and turn in full,         And sleep the sleep of the godly.      But whether I do or whether I don't,         Or whether the jug's my failing,      It's never I care a damn just where         I sail, so long's I'm sailing.