Along my way 'cross southern woods and rivers bending through,
I came upon a city port that all the trav'lers knew.
It sat atop the South Sea and it shone an easy blue,
And spotted I a reddened roof from up upon the view.
You'll never find a greater place on mountains high or low,
A den of blue stone revelry, that sailors sing and row.
It's true, it is, and spoken wide from silver pike to crow,
Oh, here's to the Quarr'lin' Sailors, the finest inn I know!
Within the hall is company that's quick with jest and tale,
That cheers amidst a sea of food and tankards brimmed with ale.
Just ask for Betha in the back, she'll serve you without fail,
She'll hear your woes and keep you drunk with stories she'll regale.
You'll never find a greater place on mountains high or low,
A den of blue stone revelry, that sailors sing and row.
It's true, it is, and spoken wide from silver pike to crow,
Oh, here's to the Quarr'lin' Sailors, the finest inn I know!
But wait, you've yet to hear the best that Sea Sky has to boast,
A Tourney full of Singers from the Northlands to the Coast.
For on those nights you'll hear the sweetest music inns could host,
And all beneath that reddened roof and with a frothy toast.
You'll never find a greater place on mountains high or low,
A den of blue stone revelry, that sailors sing and row.
It's true, it is, and spoken wide from silver pike to crow,
Oh, here's to the Quarr'lin' Sailors, the finest inn I know!
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