You have a misty lorn in your moss-green eyes, wait for me, my Rose Gray, as it's the King crab season in the wintry cruel Bering Sea. My promise of love I'll keep, and I'll bring you a sterling silver engagement ring adorned with thistle, my Scots-Irish gift from God's Highlands, as it's the King crab season in the wintry cruel Bering Sea. My soft, delicate Rose Gray, snow clouds gather, heavy with silver, and I dream a fisherman's vision, of the pallid moon of mourning, and the deep of the tossing waves, mariner's spirits in her keep, the cold, cold salt spray stinging my chapped lips, as our vessel, "Emma," struggles mightily, hold me as we sleep in our harbor home, as it's the King crab season in the wintry cruel Bering Sea. Keep in company with the other women who gather patiently on the docks, My Rose Gray, this is our life, we'll rejoice in the mariner's cathedral bells that will peal you're my bride, yet, now, I must go out to harvest with my captain and crew, I'll keep myself warm dreaming of your purest voice of Scottish Gaelic, as it's the King crab season in the wintry cruel Bering Sea. ~