QUEENSLAND WHALERS
(Harry Robertson)

I've sailed the North Atlantic, where ice blows in the breeze,
And roamed the Dutch West Indies in the calm blue sunny seas.
When I think of ships and seamen, my thoughts return again
To a season spent in Moreton Bay with Queensland whaling men.

CHORUS: Sing ho, you Queensland whalers. You've cut the sugar cane,
And driven herds of cattle o'er the dry and dusty plain.
You've dug the ore at Isa, laid countless miles of rail,
And now you come to Moreton Bay to catch the humpback whale.

For men who've chase the brumbies, catch bullocks by the tail,
It really is no problem to catch a humpback whale.
You ride your iron sea-horse, put the gun through rigging struts,
And when he runs from the coral scrub, you belt him in the guts.

The man up in the crow's nest, as whaling legends goes,
Looks out across the water and shouts, "Thar she blows,"
But here in sunny Queensland, you'll often hear them shout
"There goes a bloody beauty, mate, so get your finger out."

From Moreton to Caloundra bronze whaler sharks abound.
They wait like dingoes in the scrub for a wounded beast to sound.
But their taste for blood and savagery, it never could compare
With the bite that bloody taxman takes from our bonus share.

When fuel tanks are running low, we'll head for Brisbane town,
And at the nearest boozer our sorrows we will drown.
With beer and fiery whiskey, and plonk of vintage rare,
We'll steer a steady zigzag course without a bloody care.

And when the season's over, and we can all return
To greet our wives and sweethearts and have a little fun,
We'll rant like Queensland drovers, and roar like whaling men,
And when the season starts next year you'll find us back again.