Traditional - Lyrics from Songs of American Sailormen, by Joanna Colcord
'Tis advertised in Boston, New York and Buffalo,
Five hundred brave Americans, a-whaling for to go, singing
Blow, ye winds in the morning, And blow, ye winds, high-i!
Clear away your running gear, And blow, ye winds, high-o!
They send you to New Bedord, that famous whaling port,
And give you to some land-sharks to board and fit you out.
They send you to a boarding-house, there for a time to dwell;
The thieves they there are thicker than the other side of hell!
They tell you of the clipper-ships-a-going in and out,
And say you'll take five hundred sperm before you're six months out.
It's now we're out to sea, my boys, the wind comes on to blow;
One half the watch is sick on deck, the other half below.
But as for the provisions, we don't get half enough;
A little piece of stinking beef and a blamed small bag of duff.
Now comes that damned old compass, it will grieve your heart full sore.
For theirs is two-and-thirty points and we have forty-four.
Next comes the running rigging, which you're all supposed to know;
'Tis "Lay aloft, you son-of-a-gun, or overboard you go!"
The cooper's at the vise-bench, a-making iron poles,
And the mate's upon the main hatch a-cursing all our souls.
The Skipper's on the quarter-deck a-squinting at the sails,
When up aloft the lookout sights a school of whales.
"Now clear away the boats, my boys, and after him we'll travel,
But if you get too near his fluke, he'll kick you to the devil!"
Now we have got him turned up, we tow him alongside;
We over with our blubber-hooks and rob him of his hide.
Now the boat-steerer overside the tackle overhauls,
The Skipper's in the main-chains, so loudly he does bawl!
Next comes the stowing down, my boys; 'twill take both night and day,
And you'll all have fifty cents apiece on the hundred and ninetieth lay.
Now we are bound into Tonbas, that blasted whaling port,
And if you run away, my boys, you surely will get caught.
Now we are bound into Tuckoona, full more in their power,
Where the skippers can buy the Consul up for half a barrel of flour!
But now that our old ship is full and we don't give a damn,
We'll bend on all our stu'nsails and sail for Yankee land.
When we get home, our ship made fast, and we get through our sailing,
A winding glass around we'll pass and damn this blubber whaling!