Battlefield Band The Weary Whaling Ground
If I had the wings of a gull, me boys
I'd spread them 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 here
I'd sooner be snug in an Edinburgh pub
A-drinking of strong beer
Oh, a man must be mad or want money
Bad to venture catching whales
For he may be drowned
When the whale turns around
Or his head be smashed by the tail
Though the work seems grand
To the young green hand
And his heart is high when he goes
In a very short burst you'll hear the curse
And the cry of "There she blows"
All hands on deck now
For God's sake, move briskly if you can
And you stumble on deck both dizzy and sick
For your life you don't give a damn
And high overhead the great fish sped
And the mate gave 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 years till the ship
She points for home
We're due for our toil, a bonus on the oil
And an equal share of the bone
When we go to the agent to settle for the trip
Then we find we've cause for lament
For we slaved away four years of our lives
And earned about three pounds ten
If I had the wings of a gull, me boys
I'd spread them and fly home
