Oh woe is me alas alcack
A tear rolls down my cheek
As I tell the story of Nelly Clack
The belle of Barking Creek

Her hair is yellow as the morning sun
Except where the black shows through
And her age has been a steady twenty one
Since nineteen forty two

And every day she wheels her barrel
Selling whelks and winkles by the quart
And she'll only stray from the straight and narrow
When the fleet is home in port

For a sailor boy she cannot resist
Her mind and her knees grow weak
And every matelot for miles has kissed
The Belle of Barking Creek.

One lovely evening, when the moon was new
She stood by the garden gate
While idly wondering what to do
Poor Nelly met her fate

A great big stoker by the name of Bert
Had come into town that day
And he said, Cor blimy, what a piece of skirt
And carried her away.

And she darned his socks and she fried his bacon
And she scarcely paused for breath,
And very soon she was overtaken
By a fate that is worse than death.

Then he said, I'm going, but I'll soon be back.
I'll write to you every week,
But I know darn well that Nelly Clack
Is up the Barking Creek

There's no more to tell, 
Of poor little Nell, 
The Belle of Barking Creek.



