fare thee well ye icy acres, fare thee well ye whaling ground; fare thee well ye banks of greenland, weary whalers homeward bound. home where the breezes bend the blossom, where the oak and the apples grow; god forgot the green in greenland, he made the flowers from the ice and snow. home where the grasses lace the meadows by the waters running free; and the rivers sweetly flowing turn towards the open sea. six long months we've been a-hunting, through a hell of frozen flame; now like sails, our hearts are billowing, as we turn for home again.