I daren’t go out on the seas again, where the churning waves run high.
Now all I ask is some solid land and a fire to winter by,
With my head in a book – not down in the pan, my frail body quaking
When my breakfast comes up, and yesterday’s too, while the whole boat’s shaking.
I can’t go out on the seas again; those lumpy lolloping tides
are a stomach-heaving, queasy swell that empty my insides.
Let others taste the salty spume, the riotous seas they crave;
Another trip on a sea-tossed boat will put me in an early grave.
I WON’T go out on the seas again; now my life’s locked on land
Where the ground stays rock-fast under my feet and a man can safely stand,
And my food stays down and my head stays up, and I sleep as one in clover,
Dreaming of fields filled with flowers and bees, and nothing at all toppling over.