There are lights a-flashing in the harbour from the ships at anchor where they ride,
And a dry wind going through the palm-trees and the long-low murmur of the tide …
And there's noise and laughter in the foc's'le, and the bare feet beating out the tune
To the sound of Casey's concertina underneath the great gold moon -
Creaky old leaky concertina underneath the great gold moon.

There's a milky glimmer on the water, and the lonely glitter of the stars,
And a light breeze blowing up the roadstead, and a voice a-sighing in the spars,
A-sighing, crying in the backstays, and the furled sails sleeping overhead,
And the sound of Casey's concertina, singing of a time that's fled -
Leaky old creaky concertina singing of a dream that's dead.