Classic Poem

Cross not, cross not, merry men of France,
The sea between us flowing:
For at best you'll have but a miserable chance
In the coming & the going.
And the briny waves they have a dance
So strange to French tuition,
That long before you reach us, my merry men of France
You'll be sick of the Expedition!
Sick, sick, sick, sick,
Sick of the Expedition!

Try not, tempt not, South, or East, or West,
The wrath of the island nation:
For it's just a whim of hers that she'll not receive a guest
But at her invitation.