The trawler’s bobbin’ out in the sea,
the cabin boy waits to make the tea;
it’s dark and unforgiving, the deep North Sea.
The trawl is set,
overboard goes the net,
the trawlermen play cards for a penny a bet.
The otter boards open the net like a kite,
it’s a long hard trawl throughout the night.
The skipper sets the course,
the trawler heads west,
he’s been at it for years,
he knows best;
the men have worked hard and they need their rest.
The winch starts pulling the net from the deep,
the first mate is shattered he needs his sleep.
The cod end is opened,
the catch starts to pour;
crabs and herring all hit the floor.
Then a bang in the boiler room,
black smoke bellows out.
“Make for the small boat,” the skipper shouts.
Nine men in a dingy watch in shock,
the trawler is sinking,
they’re miles from dock.
The rain starts pouring,
the boat fills up,
the waves get bigger,
the men start to shiver.
Then without warning the boat begins to sink,
the men now know that death is on the brink.
What can they do?
They don’t know what to think…
then one by one they begin to sink.
The North Sea is dark,
it’s a grave to some of the best;
but at least now the nine will be at rest.