O young Sally, she had hair on her chin. A buxom young red blooded lass, wanton and full of sin. Many a sailor's port of call, after the taverns had closed. Down at the docks or in the alley ways, she'd lay petals opened like the Rose.. Her fine red hair would touch me, and she knew, for that a decent price. To cradle me like a baby, as we loved was very nice. I got to know young bearded Sal, as well might do my sis. And in time she halved her price, and let me call her Jim, O young Sally, she had hair on her chin. Sweet memories of Portsmouth. O where. O where to begin. I will never forget your painted face, the tobbacco that you smoked. The boistrous rum fuelled laugh you gave, o we liked to joke. For a time you were my Portsmouth, and for time you'll always be. The sailor's heart grows heavy, adrift out at sea. But other ports be calling, and calling, calling me. Alot of rum and fancy, a man must have his need. Till back. I strum you'll find me still agreed. There's no finer whore in Portsmouth, than my bearded Sally.