In north Atlantic gales;
No more the keen harpoon he'll hurl
At spermaceti whales.
Ah! never more he'll heave the log—
A harsh decree was Fate's;
He took an over-dose of grog
When up in Be(e)hring Straits.
Death blew a bitter blast and chill
Which struck his sails aback,
And round the corse of Workhouse Bill