All in the Downs are fleet was moor'd.

Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea Or skirts the safer shores Of all that bore to victory Our stout old Commodores.

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel.

Right--that will do for the marines.

Tell that to the Marines--the sailors won't believe it.

Now landsmen all, whoever you may be, If you want to rise to the top of the tree, If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool, Be careful to be guided by this golden rule-- Stick close to your desks and never go to sea, And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee.