Oh, do you remember sweet Polly, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Polly with a cunt soft and brown;
How she'd grin with delight when you gave her a quid,
And how quickly she'd fetch a prick down?

That girl has now gone to decay, Ben Bolt,
That soft, luscious quim is now dry;
And that lump of delight is now a bag of dry bones,
That wouldn't please you, Ben, or I.

Had she stuck to the Navy, I vow, Ben Bolt,
She'd alive be and kicking today;
But a bloody big soldier got round our poor girl,
And turned the poor mot into clay.

He gave her no coin, but he gave her the pox,
He whacked her while we were away;
He fucked her to death, and true to his set,
He often got in the back way.

Now she's gone dead, and he's off abroad,
And there the cuss had better stay;
For if he comes near me, my toe in his arse
Will remind him of his comrade's play.