 | Sea Songs |  |
50
A WHALER'S SONG.
Oh! there's never a game
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
The look-out aloft
Has looked oft and oft
And never a cry has been calling;
Now it's out loud he shouts,
“There he spouts, there he spouts;”
And the mate, “Off, boats, off,” sharp is bawling;
“Give way there; he shows;
“Pull—pull—there he blows;”
The harpooner his tubbed rope's uncoiling;
“Now—now—at his side,
Give him one through his hide!”
Down he goes; how he leaves the sea boiling!
Oh, there's never a game
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
Has looked oft and oft
And never a cry has been calling;
Now it's out loud he shouts,
“There he spouts, there he spouts;”
And the mate, “Off, boats, off,” sharp is bawling;
“Give way there; he shows;
“Pull—pull—there he blows;”
The harpooner his tubbed rope's uncoiling;
51
Give him one through his hide!”
Down he goes; how he leaves the sea boiling!
Oh, there's never a game
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
“Back oars;—let it run;
“He must soon see the sun;
“What a pace the black spouter is going!
“He's up, boys, for air;
“Plant another spear there;
“Quick;—another harpoon, mate, be throwing;
“That—that was the trick;
“Of such tickling he's sick;
“Down he plunges again in a hurry;
“The blood that must be
“Of his life on the sea;
“Starn all; 'ware his parting death flurry!”
Oh, there's never a game
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
“He must soon see the sun;
“What a pace the black spouter is going!
“He's up, boys, for air;
“Plant another spear there;
“Quick;—another harpoon, mate, be throwing;
“That—that was the trick;
“Of such tickling he's sick;
“Down he plunges again in a hurry;
“The blood that must be
“Of his life on the sea;
“Starn all; 'ware his parting death flurry!”
Oh, there's never a game
You landsmen can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
52
He rolls, huge and black;
Now for spades to his back;
Strip his hide, just like old india-rubber;
Now it's slice, dig and boil,
And down hold with his oil;
Hurrah, ninety casks from his blubber;
The whale-bone now stow,
Home for dollars to go;
Of the rest, the sharks won't make much trouble.
Now, look-out, again
With your glass sweep the main,
Such a chase—such a prize, we'd have double.
Oh, there's never a game
You, landsmen, can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase,
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
Now for spades to his back;
Strip his hide, just like old india-rubber;
Now it's slice, dig and boil,
And down hold with his oil;
Hurrah, ninety casks from his blubber;
The whale-bone now stow,
Home for dollars to go;
Of the rest, the sharks won't make much trouble.
Now, look-out, again
With your glass sweep the main,
Such a chase—such a prize, we'd have double.
Oh, there's never a game
You, landsmen, can name
With the sport that is known to a sailor;
There's never a chase,
On the land but gives place
To the hunt that we know from a whaler.
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