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52 SEA SONGS.
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.