O fair Abecean sea, how do I long for the days in which I swam in thy azure embrace?
But now I sail the north coast of High Rock, where none but a horker should show his face.
Where once my eyes beheld beaches of warm white sand, they now only spy cold white ice.
The frozen gale on deck forces most men below, where we huddle with each other and the mice.
Only weeks ago, diving from the deck into the salty bath was a practice to be observed each morn.
But in this place, a man who did such a thing would wish he had never been born.
Indeed! So cold are these dark currents that the bowels of our boat can keep meat fresh-froze...
But too numb to cook do our fingers be, and the chill of our shoes does murder our sweet, little toes.