Ahoy, me laddies! Me name’s Cap’n Farrell. Buccaneer’s me trade. Me best mate be Lucy, me ol’ peg leg. I owe 'er to that lily-livered scurvy scallywag who shot me in the Cork and Kerry mountains and hornswaggled me booty for 'is lass Molly.
Marooned me be now in this tiny sunken dinghy in this wat’ry grave. I beg of ye, seek ye me out, me hearties.
Seek ye out the mark of the clan of the lubbers, the mark of the laddies who trade trinkets from the seas of the east. Find it, and ye be fewer than a blimey fathom away from me fate. Bring ye yer sprogs, but eye ‘em carefully wit’ yer deadlights, so that Davy Jones won’t be snatchin’ ‘em fer ‘is locker.
Bring ye fer trade no doubloons or pieces o' eight. Me wants only th' mark of ye clan. Bring ye scriber.
Aye, matey, when ye be loggin' yer find, be talkin' like a pirate if ye will. Aarrrrrr!