There once was a time in HM Ships when the magic hour had come

The Leading Hands of every mess prepared to collect the rum

The smell of Jamaican filled the air as the ritual began

A daily tot of Nelson’s Blood was a favourite to every man

When the (Rum) Bosun stood, his measure poised

To serve every man his tot

Two fingers always in the cup

Making sure that the ‘Queen’ got her lot

The Ticker Off was there of course, his pencil at the ready

With a sipper given from each man’s tot,

His hand no longer steady

The rum rat sat, his eyes aglow, his whiskers twitching well

He liked his rum so much it seems he could get ****** on the smell

Sometimes the tots were passed around as each man paid his debts

A favour, a rubber, a duty swapped could cost a couple of wets

Then came the time to sup the ‘Queens’ ‘God Bless Her’ was the toast

A watchful eye, as each man supped so the Rum Bosun got the most

Once the rum had been consumed and nothing left to pour

The dits began as the grog took charge of favourite runs ashore

A feed, a fight, a couple of pints was part of the run ashore

A game of darts was in there too

Then all night in with a Pompey whore

No longer though does the scent of rum pervade Her Majesty’s boats

No more to sup Lord Nelson’s Blood and give the Queen her toasts

So to all who drank Lord Nelson’s Blood and heard the Klaxon’s blast

May old shipmates meet and share a wet

Spinning dits of the good times passed

A toast then to Horatio, and another to the Queen

And may we all, wherever we are,

Remember where we’ve been