The Weary Whaler
This is a sea chantey from the golden age of sail. There’s a youtube video of me singing it when you click on the VIDEO LINK below:
[Em] If I had the wings of a gull, me boys,
I would spread ’em [Am] and fly [Em] home.
I’d leave old Greenland’s icy grounds
For of right whales [Am] there is [Em] none.
[Em] And the weather’s rough and the winds do blow
And there’s little comfort here.
I’d sooner be snug in a Glasgow pub,
A-drinkin’ [Am] of strong [Em] 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 hear a curse
As the cry of: “There she blows!”
Well, these trials we bear for nigh four years,
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 for lament.
For we’ve slaved away four years of our lives
And earned about three pound ten.