Video de The Weary Whaling Grounds

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