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.