"Oh, I'm sailing away, my own true love,
I'm sailing away in the morning.
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,
From the place that I'll be landing?"
"No, there's nothing you can send me, my own true love,
There's nothing I'm wishing to be owning.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled
From across that lonesome ocean."
"Ah, but I just thought you might want something fine,
Made of silver or of golden,
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona."
"Well, if I had the stars of the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss
For that's all I'm wishing to be owning."
"That I might be gone a long, old time
And it's only that I'm asking,
Is there something I can send you to remember me by
To make your time more easy-passing?"
"Oh, how can–how can you ask me again?
It only brings me sorrow.
The same thing I would want today
I would want again tomorrow."
Oh, I got a letter on a lonesome day,
It was from her ship sailing,
Saying, "I don't know when I'll be coming back again,
It depends on how I'm feeling."
"If you, my love, must think that way,
I'm sure your mind is roaming,
I'm sure your thoughts are not with me,
But with the country to where you're going.
"So, take heed, take heed of the western winds,
Take heed of the stormy weather.
And, yes, there's something you can send back to me:
Spanish boots of Spanish leather."