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The Weary Whaling Grounds
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If I had the wings of a gull, my boys I would spread 'em and fly home I'd leave old Greenland's icy grounds For of right whales there is none And the weather's rough and the winds do blow And there's little comfort her I'd sooner be snug in a Deptford pub A-drinkin' of strong beer Oh, a man must be mad or want money bad To venture catchin' whales For we may be drowned when the fish turns around Or our head be smashed by his tail Though the work seems grand to the young green hand And his heart is high when he goes In a very short burst he'd as soon hеar a curse As the cry of: “Therе she blows!” “All hands on deck now, for God's sake Move briskly if you can.” And he stumbles on deck, so dizzy and sick; For his life he don't give a damn And high overhead the great flukes spread And the mate gives the whale the iron And soon the blood in a purple flood From the spout-hole comes a-flying! Well, these trials we bear for night four year Till the flying jib points for home We're supposed for our toil to get a bonus of the oil And an equal share of the bone But we go to the agent to settle for the trip And we've find we've cause to repent For we've slaved away four years of our life And earned about three pound ten
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