Текст песни Danny Spooner - The Weary Whaling Grounds

Oh if I had the wings of a gull me boys
I would spread them and fly home.
I would leave old Greenland 's icy grounds
For of Right whales there are none.
And the weather's rough and the winds do blow
And there's little comfort here.
I'd sooner be snug in a Deptford pub,
A-drinking of strong beer.

Oh! A man must be mad or want money bad
For to venture catching whales,
For we all may be drowned when the fish turns around,
Or our heads 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'll as soon hear a curse
At the cry of ‘There she blows.'

‘All hands on deck now for Christ's sake!
Move quickly if you can.'
And he stumbles on the deck so dizzy and sick
For his life he don't give a damn.
And high overhead the great flukes spread
As the mate gives the whale the iron.
And soon the blood in a purple flood
From the spout-hole comes a-flying.

These trials we bear for nigh four year
Till the flying jib points for home;
We're supposed for our toil to get a bonus on the oil
And an equal share of the bone,
But we go to the agent to settle for the trip
And we find we have cause to repent,
For we've slaved away four years of our lives
And we've earned about three pounds ten.