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 white whales there is non
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 up strong beer

Oh a man must be mad or want money bad,
To venture catching whales
For he may be drowned when the fish turns around
Or his head smashed by the tail
Though the work seems grand to the young green hand
In a very short burst he'll soon hear the curse
At the cry of there she blows

All hand on deck now for god's sake
Move briskly if you can
And he stumbles on deck both dizzy and sick
And for his life he don't give a damn
And high over head the great blue spread
And the mate gives the whale the iron
And soon they've blood in a purple flood
And from the spout hole comes a flame

These trials we bear for nigh four year
Till the flag she point 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've slaved away four years of our lives
And earned about three pounds ten

Weary whaling grounds