It's a damn tough life full of toil and strife
we whalermen undergo.
And we won't give a damn when the day is done,
how hard the winds did blow.
For we're homeward bound from the Arctic gound
with a good ship taut and free.
And we don't give a damn when we drink our rum
with the girls of old Maui.

Once more we sail with a northerly gale
through the ice, and wind, and rain.
Them coconut fronds, them tropical shores,
we soon shall see again.
Six hellish months have passed away
on the cold Kamchatka sea,
but now we're bound from the Arctic ground,
rolling down to old Maui.

Once more we sail the northerly gale
towards our island home.
Our whaling done, out mainmast sprung,
and we ain't got far to roam.
Our stun'sl booms is carried away,
what care we for that sound.
A living gale is after us,
thank God we're homeward bound.

How soft the breeze through the island trees
now the ice is far astern.
Them native maids, them tropical glades,
is awaiting our return.
Even now their big, brown eyes look out,
hoping some fine day to see.
Our baggy sails running 'fore the gales,
rolling down to old Maui.