Sea Shanties

Sea Shanties and Sea Songs

What is a Sea Shanty Anyway?

Before TikTok got a hold of them, sea shanties were the original sailor Spotify playlists—except they were 100% offline, loud, salty, and had zero ads (unless you count a few bawdy verses).

Back in the age of tall ships, when sails were big and engines didn’t exist, sailors had to rely on rhythm and teamwork to haul ropes, raise anchors, and keep from losing their minds doing the same tasks over and over. Enter the sea shanty: the working man’s musical Red Bull. These songs weren’t just for fun—they were functional, with call-and-response patterns that kept everyone moving in time. Pull on the rope when the chorus hits? Check. Feel slightly better about the fact that you’re covered in salt, bruises, and despair? Double check.

Now, to be fair, not every navy was on board. In Lord Nelson’s Navy, for example, shanties were banned—because apparently fun was also banned. Instead, sailors had to time their work to the sound of numbers being shouted, or someone sawing away on a fiddle or fife. Still, the spirit of the shanty lived on, and eventually took over ships that were slightly more relaxed about their shipboard playlists.

Where Did They Come From?

The word “shanty” might come from the French word chanter, meaning “to sing.” (Because of course the French had a word for it first.) Originally, these songs weren’t exactly polished musical numbers. They were more like rhythmic chanting with some melody sprinkled in—kind of like sea-themed slam poetry with a beat. One person (the “shantyman”) would lead the verses, and the rest of the crew would shout the chorus while doing the heavy lifting—literally.

Different jobs meant different beats. Need to raise the anchor? That’s a capstan shanty. Hauling sails? Try a halyard shanty. There was even a category called “short-drag” shanties, which sounds like a type of pirate fashion but is actually a rhythm for short, sharp bursts of work.

But Wait—There’s More!

Not all sea songs were for work. Once the day’s chores were done (or the captain wasn’t looking), sailors would gather in the forecastle (that’s the part of the ship where the crew slept and tried to ignore how much everything smelled like fish) and sing forebitters—ballads about home, heartbreak, storms, bad food, worse bosses, and the occasional mermaid. These “off-the-clock” songs could be sentimental, hilarious, or a little too honest about the captain’s personal hygiene.

Interestingly, some of these ballads didn’t even start at sea. Songs sung by lumberjacks, blacksmiths, railroad workers, and gold miners eventually drifted their way onto ships, adapted to life on the waves. Even some songs sung by enslaved dockworkers—whose rhythmic calls helped organize cargo loading—contributed to what became the shanty tradition.

So What Happened?

Well, eventually steam engines happened. And then diesel. And suddenly, no one needed 30 guys pulling a rope to raise a sail. So the job of the shantyman started to disappear. By the early 20th century, the tradition was fading—though it never totally vanished. Now, sea shanties are mostly kept alive by choirs, folk groups, and that one guy with the concertina at every renaissance fair.

What’s in a Song?

The lyrics of these songs were never set in stone. Sailors rewrote verses on the fly, added in local gossip, deleted anything too slow, or—let’s be honest—tossed in some lines that wouldn’t pass the kindergarten filter. (Don’t worry, I keep things PG-13 in my workshops.) Every crew had their own version, and the same song might be sung a dozen different ways depending on the port, the mood, or the weather.

Some of the shanties sung today are centuries old; others were written last week and just sound old because they mention whales and rum. Either way, the tradition is alive—and loud.

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If you’re the kind of person who likes going down nautical rabbit holes (welcome to the crew), there’s a fantastic treasure trove of sea shanties over at Brethren Coast as well as at The Contemplator. They got lyrics, history, and enough salty songs to keep your inner sailor humming for days.

Click the button if you want to dive deeper into the full list:

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My Favorite Shanties

But if you’re just here for the greatest hits, I’ve listed a few of my personal favorites below—ones I’ve sung, taught, or just can’t get out of my head.

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Ah yes—A-Roving. The sea shanty equivalent of a sailor’s “bad decision anthem.” This one’s been around a looooong time. Some folks (like Burl Ives, bless his bearded heart) claim it first showed up in 1608 in a London play called The Rape of Lucrece by Robert Heywood and then made its way into sailors’ mouths across the high seas. Others—like the ever-salty Stan Hugill—aren’t buying it. He argues that while some scholars trace it back to Elizabethan times, we can’t say for sure who first sang about the infamous Maid of Amsterdam.

What we do know is that versions of this song have shown up not just in England, but also in Denmark and France—which tells you it had a pretty solid European tour long before Spotify. This was more of a forebitter than a work song—meaning it was sung for entertainment, not for hauling rope—though good luck stopping a few shantymen from sneaking it into their capstan rotation.

Spoiler alert: things don’t end well for the sailor in this song. But when has that ever stopped a good sea ballad?

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This one’s not a shanty—it’s a full-blown sea song, born not in the golden age of sail, but in its grimy, hungover aftermath. Think of it as the musical version of an old sailor staring into the distance, wondering where his boots, his gear, and his dignity went (spoiler: he drank ‘em).

“All for Me Grog” is rough around the edges, like the frayed cuffs of a well-worn sea coat. It’s a toast and a lament all in one—celebrating the bottle while quietly admitting it’s also the reason our poor Jack Tar has to pawn his clothes and go hunting for another ship.

For the uninitiated: grog was a mix of rum and water—a staple on ships back in the day. The exact recipe varied (depending on the captain’s generosity or stinginess), but it was the sailor’s drink. The U.S. Navy cut it out in 1862, and the Royal Navy kept the party going all the way until 1970. Yes, 1970. Some men still mourn.

So grab your imaginary tankard and sing along. Just don’t blame me if you wake up missing your boots.

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No, not that Rio Grande. This isn’t a song about Texas and tumbleweeds. The “Rio Grande” we’re headed for is Rio Grande do Sul, in southern Brazil—land of high sand dunes, gold rushes, and, apparently, catchy sea shanties.

“The Rio Grande” (also known as “Away for Rio” or “Bound for the Rio Grande”) was one of the most popular shanties sung during the age of sail. There are a ton of variations out there—this version comes from Stan Hugill’s variant b, for you shanty purists out there.

This tune was a capstan or windlass shanty, meaning it was sung during long, repetitive tasks like raising the anchor—usually as ships were setting off on a voyage. According to Hugill, it was especially common on ships leaving from the West Coast of England and Wales, often stopping off in places like Newfoundland or Cádiz to pick up salt or salt cod before making the long haul south.

Some versions mention “golden sand”—a poetic nod to the dunes along Brazil’s coast and the gold that was found there in the 18th century. Sure, there was gold near the Texas Rio Grande too, but that discovery came later, long after sailors were already belting this one out.

So, hoist the capstan and sing like you’re bound for the southern sun—just don’t pack your cowboy hat.

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“Blood Red Roses” (sometimes sailing under the alias “Bunch o’ Roses” or “Come Down, Ye Bunch o’ Roses”) is one of those halyard shanties that sticks with you—haunting, rhythmic, and just cryptic enough to spark a dozen theories after your second verse.

So… what exactly are the “blood red roses”? Great question. Depends who you ask. Some say it’s a grim image of blood in the water as a dying whale is hauled alongside the ship. Others suggest it’s sailor humor at the expense of red-coated Royal Marines lending a hand on deck—which would be hilarious if Marines ever worked on whaling ships… which they didn’t. So, maybe scratch that one.

Stan Hugill, ever the reliable shanty whisperer, noted that this song was popular on both Liverpool and Yankee ships, and that it likely evolved from an older English ballad about Napoleonic-era British soldiers—aka the redcoats. Makes sense: if you’re gonna sing while hoisting a sail, why not throw in a dash of war imagery, flower metaphors, and a little whale gore?

Whatever its true origins, this one’s a belter—perfect for synchronizing a good heave-ho and unsettling your landlubber friends with its slightly spooky vibe.

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“Blow the Man Down” is one of the most iconic halyard shanties, originating in the Western Ocean packet ships of the 19th century. Though some speculate its melody may have German roots, it’s more likely adapted from the African-American song Knock a Man Down. A related variant, The Black Ball Line, offers a more upbeat take on the same era of sailing.

The title refers to the harsh discipline aboard packet ships, where “blow” meant to strike a sailor down—sometimes with a fist, a belaying pin, or even a capstan bar. First mates were known as “blowers,” second mates as “strikers,” and third mates as “greasers.” This system, called Western Ocean Law, was infamous for its brutality.

This version tells of the Black Ball Line, founded by Quakers in 1818 as the first regularly scheduled passenger line between Britain and the U.S., sailing on fixed days from ports like New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. The line’s crimson swallow-tail flag with a black ball became legendary, as did the ships’ speed and seamanship—and their violent shipboard culture. Seamen, mostly from New York or Liverpool-Irish backgrounds, nicknamed these vessels “bloodboats”, and themselves “Packet Rats.”

As steamships took over by the late 1800s, the age of sail—and the world of “Blow the Man Down”—faded into history.

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A halyard shanty with likely Caribbean origins, “Bully in the Alley” was documented by Stan Hugill in the West Indies and by Cecil Sharp in Watchet, Somerset. Its rhythmic drive made it well-suited to hoisting sails.

The meaning of the chorus remains debated. “Bully” may refer to a drunken sailor or a dominant, boisterous one; “Bob” might be a euphemism for God, as in “God help me.” The song likely reflects a common shore-leave scenario: one crewmember drinks too much and becomes “bully in the alley,” temporarily abandoned while the others continue their revelry. Sailors would stash their incapacitated friend in a side alley—possibly one of the many “Shinbone Alleys” found in Caribbean and American port towns—to sleep it off until it was time to return to the ship.

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(also known as “Clear the Track, Let the Bulgine Run”)

This lively capstan shanty was a favorite aboard Yankee Packet ships, especially during the transatlantic runs of the 19th century. According to Stan Hugill, it blends Irish and African-American influences—likely originating in Ireland, adapting in Mobile, Alabama, and returning to sea in a new form. Whall, another shanty collector, believed the tune was of minstrel origin.

The word “bulgine” was slang for “engine,” and while sailing ships didn’t use engines, the term was likely borrowed from contemporary popular songs. Verses were often improvised, with some versions referencing the Margaret Evans, a well-known vessel of the Blue Star Line (or possibly the Blue Cross Line).

Packet ships were notable for maintaining fixed schedules across the Atlantic, beginning with the Black Ball Line in 1818. These ships were fast but notorious for their brutal discipline, earning nicknames like “bloodboats.” Their crews—often Liverpool-Irish or New York seamen—used shanties like this to coordinate heavy tasks while turning the capstan.

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“What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?” is one of the most recognizable sea shanties and was traditionally used to coordinate sailors’ work aboard ship. Its rousing, repetitive structure made it ideal for group singing and improvisation.

This is a capstan shanty, typically sung while raising the anchor. Sailors would insert bars into the capstan and walk around in a circle, turning it to hoist the heavy anchor chain. The strong beat and call-and-response format helped maintain rhythm and morale. Crews often stamped on the deck in unison during the phrase “Way hay and up she rises!”

Verses were easily improvised and could go on as long as the job took. Each verse usually suggested a humorous or exaggerated remedy for dealing with the titular “drunken sailor,” reflecting the wit and camaraderie of life at sea.

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“Fish in the Sea” is a traditional sea shanty that likely originated as a Scottish fishermen’s song, according to shanty collector Stan Hugill. It became especially popular among Gloucester fishermen in the American Northeast and was also known in Canada and Devonshire, where Hugill collected regional versions.

The song exists in many melodic variants. Americans often sang it to a recognizable Scottish air, while Richard Runciman Terry and Captain W.B. Whall—both early 20th-century collectors—noted alternate tunes. Whall, in Sea Songs and Shanties, mentions it was sometimes sung to the melody of “Blow the Man Down,” a common practice in the flexible oral tradition of sea music.

This version is based on the Canadian variant collected by Barry Taylor. It functioned as a capstan shanty, sung during long tasks like raising the anchor. Sailors would take turns adding verses, each naming a different kind of fish, keeping the rhythm going as long as the job required

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One of the most popular halyard shanties, Hanging Johnny was known for its dark humor and adaptability. Sailors would invent new verses on the spot—”hanging” anyone who came to mind—to keep the rhythm going as long as the task required.

The title may refer to the infamous 17th-century English executioner Jack Ketch, whose name became a nickname for all hangmen. Despite the grim imagery, the tone was usually playful rather than morbid.

Interestingly, Thomas Higginson’s Army Life in a Black Regiment notes that African-American soldiers from the Carolina Sea Islands sang this shanty during the Civil War, adapting the verses to reflect their military service.

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A classic short-drag shanty, Haul Away the Bowline is likely one of the oldest known work songs of the sea. The bowline was a rope used to pull the windward edge of a square sail taut when sailing close-hauled. Though the line—and the practice—fell out of use with the rise of staysails in the 18th century, the shanty lived on.

Its quick, punchy rhythm made it ideal for short bursts of effort, especially when hauling with a small crew. Like many early shanties, it likely evolved from older English folk songs and was passed along orally by generations of sailors.

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Though not a sea shanty, this Irish traditional farewell song earns its place here on merit—and because it’s my class, and I can sing what I want.

Here’s a Health to the Company reflects the deep history of emigration from Ireland and Scotland, especially Ulster, and carries a sense of parting that resonates with sailors and travelers alike. Its stirring melody has been shared with other Irish ballads, the American Liberty Song, and even the whaling song Farewell to Tarwathie. Paddy Tunney learned it from Joe Holmes of North Antrim, and it’s closely related to the Scottish Emigrant’s Farewell to Donside.

Whether sung ashore or imagined aboard a departing ship, it’s a heartfelt toast to friends left behind.

A classic “long haul” shanty, John Kanaka was sung at the halyards while hoisting sails. Many Native Hawaiians, known as Kanaka, worked aboard Pacific ships and were celebrated for their seamanship. English-speaking sailors often struggled with Hawaiian names and referred to them simply as Kanaka, meaning “person” or “man” in Hawaiian.

The song’s distinctive chorus—“tulai e, oh, tulai e! John Kanaka-naka, tulai e!”—comes directly from the Polynesian language family, though it’s often misheard as “Too-Rye-Ay” due to familiarity with Irish-American folk songs. (Pro tip: there is no “R” sound in Hawaiian!)

Shanty collector Stan Hugill was the first to publish the song in print. He credited “Harding of Barbadoes” as his source, noting the version included high falsetto yelps and rhythmic hitches—hallmarks of Polynesian vocal style and a reminder of the multicultural world of sailors at sea.

Traditionally the last shanty sung before leaving a ship, Leave Her, Johnny marked the final tasks of a voyage—whether warping the ship to the dock or pumping out the bilges one last time.

Though it may sound like a fond farewell, the lyrics often serve as a cathartic venting of frustration. With the voyage complete and the officers’ power fading, sailors felt free to voice complaints about bad food, poor treatment, and the hardships endured at sea—without fear of punishment. It was both a farewell and a final reckoning.

Lowlands is a mysterious and evocative pump shanty, traditionally sung while sailors worked the ship’s pumps. It exists in two main versions: one tells the eerie tale of a dead lover appearing in a dream; the other speaks of cotton-lumbers working in Mobile, Alabama.

Some early scholars mistook the latter as proof of African-American origins, but the song more likely traces back to a lost Anglo-Scots ballad preserved among British seamen and passed to Gulf port laborers. The haunting “Lowlands” refrain may even echo the older ballad The Golden Vanity.

Captain Whall notes that “my John” may not be personal, but rather a common nickname for any sailor—“the Johns” being slang for a merchant crew in old Liverpool.

One of the rare bunt shanties, Paddy Doyle’s Boots was sung by the few men aloft as they furled sail, bunching the canvas into a “bunt” and heaving it up to the yard. Unlike most shanties, it was chorus throughout and used fewer voices.

Paddy Doyle was likely a Liverpool boarding master—one of the infamous crimps who lodged sailors, outfitted them in cheap gear, and took a cut of their advance pay. The song reflects the sailors’ contempt for him, with each verse naming the low-quality items he provided.

Though more modern in origin, Pump Shanty captures the grit and rhythm of traditional work songs at sea. Credited to Tony Goodenough of London’s Shanty Crew, it mimics the style of older pumping chanteys—songs that helped sailors keep time while removing bilge water from the ship.

These songs could last for hours, their steady beat matching the tiring labor of keeping the vessel afloat.

Roll the Chariot began as an African-American spiritual and later found life at sea as a “stamp-and-go” or “walk away” chantey—sailors would haul the line while walking steadily along the deck, especially when bracing the yards or working the great flywheel pumps nicknamed the “Downtown Pumps.”

With its strong rhythm and call-and-response structure, it transitioned easily from shipboard work to life ashore—sung by the Salvation Army, adapted as a hymn, and even used as a rousing “pep song” at baseball games.

A favorite among modern folk and sea music singers, Rolling Down to Old Maui captures the weary hope of whalers heading home from Arctic waters to the warmth of the Hawaiian Islands.

The version most people know today traces back to Gale Huntington’s Songs the Whalemen Sang, where it appears as Rolling Down to Old Mohee, taken from an 1858 logbook aboard the Atkins Adams of New Bedford. Joanna Colcord included the lyrics earlier in Songs of American Sailormen (1938), but she hadn’t found a tune for them. The melody that stuck came later, from Frederick Harlow’s Chanteying Aboard American Ships (1962).

Like many traditional songs, it likely had multiple versions and melodies floating around ship to ship. But what remains is a vivid picture of sailors toughened by northern seas, dreaming of soft breezes and solid ground in “Old Maui.”

Ah, Santiana—a sea shanty with more versions than a sailor’s got tattoos. This one dates back to the 1850s, inspired by real events from the Mexican–American War… though let’s just say the facts got a bit creative in the retelling.

Depending on the version, General Santa Anna might be winning glorious victories left and right—even though (spoiler alert) he actually lost both battles mentioned in the song. Some think British sailors who jumped ship to fight for Mexico might’ve had something to do with the rewrite. Hey, if you’re deserting for a new boss, you might as well give him a theme song.

Originally sung as a pump shanty, Santiana eventually became a favorite capstan shanty as ships moved from wood to iron. And like many great sea songs, no two versions are exactly the same—shantymen often made it up as they went, giving each crew their own spin.

Whether you’re team Santa Anna or just here for the chorus, this one’s got a melody that sticks like tar and lyrics that wander like a sailor on shore leave.

Here’s a rousing favorite that did double duty—“South Australia” was often used as both a halyard and capstan shanty, which basically means it got the job done whether you were hauling heavy sails or heaving anchor.

This one was especially popular with the wool trade crews sailing the clipper ships between England and Australia—big ships, long voyages, and even longer beards. It was also sung as a farewell song, ringing out loud and proud as ships left port, bound for the far side of the world.

With its call-and-response structure and driving rhythm, it’s no wonder this one stuck around. Whether you’re hoisting canvas or just trying to stay awake on a long drive, “South Australia” still delivers the goods.

Though not originally a shanty, Spanish Ladies is one of the most iconic sailing songs in the English tradition. It tells of British navy men homeward bound from Spain, tracking their course by depth and seabed texture rather than the stars—navigating the broad waters between Ushant and the Scilly Isles. Though once nearly forgotten, the song was preserved in Captain Frederick Marryat’s 1840 novel Poor Jack. It gained new life in the rise of sea shanties and is now often sung alongside them as a borrowed favorite from the Royal Navy.

Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;
For we’ve received orders for to sail for ole England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

CHORUS:
We will rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt sea.
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty five leagues.

We hove our ship to with the wind from sou’west, boys
We hove our ship to, deep soundings to take;
‘Twas forty-five fathoms, with a white sandy bottom,
So we squared our main yard and up channel did make.

CHORUS

The first land we sighted was called the Dodman,
Next Rame Head off Plymouth, off Portsmouth the Wight;
We sailed by Beachy, by Fairlight and Dover,
And then we bore up for the South Foreland light.

CHORUS

Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor,
And all in the Downs that night for to lie;
Let go your shank painter, let go your cat stopper!
Haul up your clewgarnets, let tacks and sheets fly!

CHORUS

Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper,
And let ev’ry man drink off his full glass;
We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,
And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass.

CHORUS

Written for the rowdy glory of the Music Hall by Joseph B. Geoghegan (1816–1889), this song sailed far beyond its London roots. Geoghegan—who probably penned it while running the Star and Museum Music Hall in Bolton—wasn’t aiming for nautical fame, but 10,000 Miles Away ended up in the hearts (and voices) of American sailors too.

Fun fact: it’s technically 9,537 miles to Botany Bay, but that didn’t quite fit the rhyme scheme—so poetic license wins the day.

Catchy, dramatic, and just the right amount of absurd. Classic Music Hall energy.

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This sly little tune comes from Bob Roberts, skipper of the Cambria, the last of the Thames sailing barges—and a man with a great stash of sea songs.

The idea? Put a candle in the window.

• If it blows out, it’s too windy to fish.
• If it stays lit, there’s not enough wind to fish.
  Either way? Go back to bed.

It’s the fisherman’s version of a weather app—with built-in permission to hit snooze.

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“Soon May the Wellerman Come” is a New Zealand whaling ballad, likely dating from the 1830s or 1840s, associated with shore-based whaling stations run by the Weller brothers, who were prominent merchants in Otago. Though often grouped with sea shanties, it was not a work song sung during labor, but rather a forebitter—a song sung for entertainment during rest.

The song tells of a whaling crew locked in an extended chase with a right whale, waiting for the arrival of the “Wellerman”—a supply ship sent by the Weller brothers to deliver goods like sugar, tea, and rum. These supply ships were crucial to the operation of the whaling stations and to the lives of the workers, many of whom were Māori or of mixed heritage.

Unlike most sea shanties, The Wellerman reflects the colonial realities of 19th-century New Zealand, blending folk storytelling with the rhythms of maritime life. Its catchy chorus and steady beat made it a favorite for modern audiences, especially after it went viral in 2021 during the “ShantyTok” trend.

Despite its popularity today, The Wellerman is a land-based whaling ballad, not a traditional shipboard work song—but it captures the spirit and community of maritime labor all the same.