And where are the little English flowers That open in the breeze?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
You shall see the fields again,
And smell the scent of the opening flowers,
The grass, and the waving grain.

Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?
My Mary waits for me.
Oh! when shall I see my old mother,
And pray at her trembling knee?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
Think not such thoughts again.
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek:
He thought of Lady Jane.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,
The ice grows more and more;
More settled stare the wolf and bear,
More patient than before.

O, think you, good Sir John Franklin,
We'll ever see the land?

T was cruel to send us here to starve,
Without a helping hand.

T was cruel, Sir John, to send us here,
So far from help or home,

To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:
I ween the lords of the Admiralty

Would rather send than come.

Oh! whether we starve to death alone, Or sail to our own country,

We have done what man has never done The truth is founded, the secret wonWe passed the Northern Sea!

THE FERRY