When my man goes to sea,
he steps so high and free.
I think I know as I watch him go
that he has no need for me, for me.
And when my man comes home
and waits a while to roam,
I think I see when he smiles at me
that he's dreaming of the foam, the foam.
I'm not a pious Christian
and I do not go to mass,
but I pray to Father Neptune
to let him safely pass.
I sing to the god with the three-pronged rod
and the whiskers wild and free
that I've got a man with a beard and a tan
and a passion for the sea.
He rides through the storm and the cold and the warm
and he loves to risk his neck,
and I like to know when he goes below
that it's just below the deck.
Oh, Neptune; Father Neptune!
I tell you fair and true
that if you should lose my sailor
I'll sing no more to you.
When he's home from sea he is half with me
and he's gone when I close the door,
and it's still his creed that he has no need
of a wife except on shore.
I know it's the boat that keeps him afloat,
but I like to think it's me.
And if it were not for this
I would sink to the depths of the sea.