On this day, a hornpipe blow, and sing a shanty dirge. our dear departed Matey, Willie Momfred lies dead. I come to sing his lauds and celebrate his revelries.
Fair Winds greet ye, Willie me matey. Ye struck the colors for the last time. From your first fulsome days as a sprog to your days on the futtock shrouds, you became a right, good Jack Tar and rose to be boson and Capt'n. The wild waves bore hard upon ye and yer ship and yet, ye believed not in black spots, curses and evil eyes, but the bountiful, goodness of lady luck and the sea. No curse by Neptune gave ye travail when raisin' the Jolly Roger and searching' the seven seas for swaggy brigantines and booty-filled square-riggers.
Fair Winds greet ye, Willie me matey. Deep below, in clear blue waters lies me bucko, Willie Momfred.
Yesterday, Willie swung the lead the last time an' we filled his bunghole with gunpowder to blast the devil spirits away. We pickled his carcass in a half-filled hogshead of the finest rum and lowered him to Davy Jones' Locker, an' Npetune's royal realm. There Willie can rest with the booty of ages in the company of great whales and the giant leviathan that haunts the depths and scours the seas for scallywags and curs.
Fair Winds greet ye, Willie me matey. Neptune issue ye Letters of Marque. Ye are now a privateer on the blowing winds of specters, ghosts, and spirits. No Northeaster will harm ye. May the reefs fall before ye, ye old sea dog, and may ye weigh anchor, raise the mizzen mast and sail the seven seas. Fair Winds greet ye, Willie me matey.