(Away O, my Clyde-built clipper!)
In eighteen hundred and seventy-three,
Fine in the lines and keen in the bow,
The way they've forgotten to build 'em now:
Lofty masted and heavily sparred,
With stunsail booms to every yard,
And flying kites both high and low
To catch the wands when they did blow
(And away, my Clyde-built clipper!).

Fastest ship on the Colonies run--
(Away O, my racing clipper!)
That was her when her time begun;
Sixteen knots she could easily do,
And thirteen knots on a bowline too;
She could show her heels to anything made
With sky-sails set in a favouring trade,
Or when she was running her easting down
From London River to Hobart Town
(And away, my racing clipper!).

Old shellbacks knew her near and far
(Away O, my old-time clipper!)
From Circular Quay to Mersey Bar,
And many a thundering lie they told
About her runs in the days of old;
But the time did come and the time did go,
And she grew old as we all must grow,
And the most of her gear was carried away
When caught aback in a gale one day