He is a captain, and his hometown is Marseille.
He’s fond of brawling, ain’t too fond of talking.
He smokes a pipe, prefers the strongest ale,
and loves a girl from Nagasaki…
She’s got old leprous scars along her hands,
she’s covered in tattoos, and if you’re lucky,
in the evenings, you can see her dance
the jig in barrooms down in Nagasaki…
Her chest is very, very small, her skin is pale,
her lips — her lips are red as poppies…
And now, once more, the captain has set sail,
longing to see the girl from Nagasaki.
A coral necklace, scarlet as fresh blood,
a blouse of silk — its color khaki —
all this, along with fervent, fiery love,
he’ll offer to the girl from Nagasaki.
The captain has arrived, only to find
that some gent in a tailcoat, after smoking
too much hashish for far too many nights,
had stabbed and killed the girl from Nagasaki…
Her chest is very, very small, her skin is pale,
her lips — her lips are red as poppies…
And now, once more, the captain has set sail,
never again to see the girl from Nagasaki…
Он юнга, его родина — Марсель,
Он обожает пьянку, шум и драки.
Он курит трубку, пьет английский эль,
И любит девушку из Нагасаки.
У ней прекрасные зеленые глаза
И шелковая юбка цвета хаки.
И огненную джигу в кабаках
Танцует девушка из Нагасаки.
Янтарь, кораллы, алые как кровь,
И шелковую юбку цвета хаки,
И пылкую горячую любовь
Везет он девушке из Нагасаки.
Приехав, он спешит к ней, чуть дыша,
И узнает, что господин во фраке,
Сегодня ночью, накурившись гашиша,
Зарезал девушку из Нагасаки.