We were forty miles from Albany,
forget it, I never shall!
What a terrible storm we had one night
on the Eriee Canal.
Refrain:
Oh, the Eriee was rising,
and gin was getting low,
and I scarcely think we`ll get a drink
till we get to Buffalo.
The winds began to whistle,
and the waves began to roll,
and we had to reel our royals
on the raging canal.
We were loaded down with barley,
we were chuck up full of rye,
and the captain, he looked at me
with his gol-durn wicked eye.
Two miles out from Syracuse
the vessel struck a shoal,
and we like to all been foundered
on a chunk o‘ Lackawanna coal.
We hollered to the captain
on the towpath, treadin‘ dirt;
he jumped on board and stopped the leak
with his old red flannel shirt.
When we get to Syracuse
the off-mule he was dead,
the nigh mule got blind staggers,
and we cracked him on the head.
The cook she was a grand ol‘ girl,
she had a ragged dress.
We hoisted her upon a pole
as a signal of distress.
The captain, he got married,
the cook, she went to jail;
and I`m the only son-of-a-gun
that`s left to tell the tale.