Hoist the Jolly Roger, mateys,
Onward we go.
Aye, to the northern shore,
Where our booty awaits.
Avast yer shanties,
Straight on, forward ho.
To the place of lore,
The fulfillment of our fates.

One last heave, down yer grogs,
For land ho be the call.
Yar, ye Bucs, Corsairs and sprogs,
In line to paradise ye fall.

Off the ships, gather all around,
To the shores, thar's treasure to be found.
Off the ships, to the northern shore,
No longer be we the pirates of yore.

Carpe diem, me 'earties, sieze this day.
For 'tis a strange place for such a rope to lay.
No such sight I be havin' seen,
An omen?  We be headin' to our Fiddlers Green?

Hoist the Jolly Roger, mateys!
Retreat to the ships; prepare to fight!
Man the cannons, batten the hatches,
Set sail out of these straits,
Resume yer shanties,
Let them echo through the night.
Get ready yer matches,
Throw these scoundrels to their fates.

Ambushed we be, caught in their trap.
Trapped like rats in a pirate's rum cellar,
We find ourselves on Davey Jones' lap.
Yargh, we must escape that vicious bottom-dweller.

Off the guns, gather all 'round.
To the deck, there's glory be found.
Off the guns, for we shall fight once more.
We be soon, the pirates of eternal lore.

T'was a strange place for a rope to lay,
But I be not frettin' another day.
Time for glory, mateys, fight 'gainst the Queen.
For today we find our Fiddlers Green.

No longer pirates, but souls we stay.
We found our Fiddlers Green today.
From the strange place we hang,
Remembering shanties we always sang.
The rope, an omen; it was our demise.
The rope, a blessing; To Fiddlers Green we rise.