A monstrous wave picks up her bow,
 Foamy fingers lift her to the sky,
 Smashing her down like a toy,
 The hull shudders and groans,
 But she holds tight; 
 The shipwrights of the Tyne know their trade,
 Look - here comes another one,
 The Captain prays and hopes he sails another day.

 The young lad is swept away, 
 foam and spray bowl him over deck,
 Miracles come true; 
 The monster turns and the sea throws him back,
 Davy Jones must wait another day.

 The tempest passes but alas,
 Mountains of ice do harass, 
 Skillfully they steer a course,
 Ravines of ice starboard and port,

 One mistake and the hull would collapse.
 Frosty fingers must still climb the mast,
 Sails frozen, like concrete sheets,
 In the cabin there is no respite;
 Sodden blankets and chill night,
 Cheer up lads;
 You’re still alive and Captain Doggett is at your side.

 The Clipper is buffeted around the Horn,
 And starts to fly northward bound,
 The warming currents of the Atlantic drift;
 Come to smartly greet the great ship,
 Not too far now to Plymouth Sound,
 And you’ll all be happily paid your pound.

 She cruises up the River Thames,
 Sails unfurled, smugly proud,
 Sydney to London in 73 days,
 Who could do that but the mighty Cutty Sark.