Written by the famous Scots poet and song writer Robert Burns. While I haven’t found a specific date for it, it was surely written before his death in 1796. It was published posthumously in 1806 by C. Randall in Stirling, Scotland.  It references the legal, if dubious, practice of “impressment” of men for the Royal Navy, and is told as a conversation between a Naval Captain and an experienced sailor that the former desires to enlist for the mission.  An enlisted sailor was usually treated “better” for being a willing hand and in theory paid better than one who was “impressed” into service.

While this is a fairly obscure song even in the maritime music circles, it was recorded by Ewan MacColl on his album with Peggy Seeger “Cold Snap”, 1978. (see below)  Unfortunately, without doing their due research, the song is usually credited with being a composition of Ewan’s when even Ewan didn’t make that claim.  This is a common problem with organizations such as ASCAP and BMI when they seek out performers not playing with a permit to “cover” songs recorded by someone else.  This song is in fact public domain regardless of who records it.

Jos. Morneault

Come brave honest Jack tar, once more will you venture?
Press warrants they are out; I would have you to enter:
Take some rich Spanish prize, as we’ve done times before O
And be cheated of all, as we were the last war O.

No man that sails with me shall e’er be abus-ed
So, Jack come and enter; you shall be well us-ed:
You’ll be bo’s’n’s mate, Jack, so boldly come and enter
And be not like a dog hauled on board of the tender.

Dear captain, he said then, don’t talk of your pressing
It’s not long since I gave six of them dressing.
-I know very well, jack, the truth I must grant you;
-You’re a brave, hearty fellow, that makes me to want you.

Dear captain, he said then, the truth I do tell you,
I got in the last war what quite filled my belly;
For your damned rogues of officers they used me so cruel
That a man-of-war ship’s worse than hell or the devil.

The master’s a-swearing, the bo’s’n’s a-growling
The midshipman a-howling out, Take that fore-bowling;
If you speak but one word, you’re a mutinous rascal,
Your legs laid in irons and you’re tried by court-martial.

Now, boys, we are pressed from our habitation,
We leave wife and children in grief and vexation;
We venture our sweet lives in defence of our nation,
And we get nothing for it but toil and vexation.