Aft on the poopdeck
  Walking about
There is the second mate
  So sturdy and so stout
What he is thinking of
  He only knows himself
Oh, we wish that he would hurry up
  And strike, strike the bell

    Strike the bell, second mate
     Let us go below
    Look away to windward
     You can see it's going to blow
    Look at the glass
     You can see that it is fell
    We wish the you would hurry up
     And strike, strike the bell

Down on the maindeck
  Working at the pumps
There is the larboard watch
  Ready for their bunks
Over to windward
  They see a great swell
They're wishing that the second mate
  Would strike, strike the bell

Aft at the wheel
  Poor Anderson stands
Grasping the spokes
  In his cold, mittened hands
Looking at the compass
  The coarse is clear as hell
He's wishing that the second mate
  Would strike, strike the bell

For'ad in the fo'c'sle head
  Keeping sharp lookout
There is Johnny standing
  Ready for to shout
"Lights' burning bright, sir
  And everything is well"
He's wishing that the second mate
  Would strike, strike the bell

Aft the quarterdeck
  The gallant captain stands
Looking to windward
  With his glasses in his hand
What he is thinking of
  We know very well
He's thinking more of shortening sail
  Than strike, strike the bell