| In the year of 1831
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| I sailed toward the setting sun
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| Bringing food and fuel and guns for the Hudson bay company
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| Vancouver to the North West shore
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| Like I’d done this fifteen years or more
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| Little did I know what lay in store on the icy Beaufort sea
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| Trading cargo for the finest furs
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| Dragged by Eskimos and voyagers
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| It was early winter came that year
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| Through closing pack ice I did steer
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| Just a narrow pack of sea laid clear
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| Now I was home with —?
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| But as I crossed the Beaufort sea
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| The black ice, it closed in on me
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| It was a fearful guarantee that I’d be run to the ground
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| To Barrow then, the crew did go
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| To shelter from the wind and snow
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| Locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Drifting with the flow
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| Where the ice goes, I go
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| It seemed that fortune looked my way
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| For early on, the following day
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| The ice broke up and moved away
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| And the crew came back aboard
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| For two months the Alaskan shore
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| The black ice, it closed in once more
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| Cut the skyline where I’d sailed before
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| Like a wide and deadly sword
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| Captain and the thirty crew
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| To the safety and the shore they drew
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| But I was locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Drifting with the flow
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| Where the ice goes, I go
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| So without a crew, I drifted slow
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| Stuck fast within the pack I know
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| 'Till a group of hunting Eskimo found me floating just offshore
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| Two years later, I was seen again
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| Heading Northward through the snow and rain
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| The savage men, they tried to stake their claim
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| But the ice made them withdraw
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| It was in the year of 69'
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| I was sighted for the final time
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| Locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Drifting with the flow
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| Locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Where the ice goes, I go
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| I’m a little gross ship on the Beaufort sea
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| Doomed to travel and —?
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| Locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Drifting with the flow
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| Locked in ice
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| Of a hundred years
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| Where the ice goes, I go
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| I go
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| I go |