'So they couldn't save the old Frenchie at the finish,'
Bill said, 'an' now she's gone -
Gone, an' left the little old
Foudroyant

Keepin' her watch alone.

They been chummy ships in one port and another
A long while, them two,
An' I wouldn't wonder somehow if they miss each other,
Ginger, would you?

But there ain't a much better place after all than old Pompey
For an old ship to lay,
An' there ain't a much better job for an old ship or an old sailorman
Than learning the young uns the old sea way.

She can look across to the old Victory yonder
From her moorings where she rides,
She can feel the sun an' the rain, the wind an' the weather,
An' the tug o' the double tides.

She can see the Hard, an' the Point, an' the White Ensign flying,
An' the ships goin' by . . .
Well, good luck and long life to you, little
Foudroyant
. . .'
'Ay, an' so say I . . .'