We were forty miles from Albany,
Forget it, I never shall!
What a terrible storm we had one night
On the E-ri-e Canal.

Oh, the E-ri-e was a-rising,
And gin was getting low,
And I scarcely think
We're gonna get a little drink
Till we get to Buffalo-o-o,
Till we get to Buffalo.

We were loaded down with barley,
We were loaded down with rye,
And the captain, he looked at me
With a gol-durn wicked eye.


The captain he come up on deck
With a spyglass in his hand
But the fog it was so tarn-ol' thick
That he couldn't spy the land


The cook she was a grand ol' gal,
She had a ragged dress.
And we hoisted her upon a pole
As a signal of distress.


Well, the captain, he got married,
And the cook, she went to jail;
And I'm the only son-of-a-gun
That's left to tell the tale.