Country Joe McDonald

When my grandpa was a boy, he went down to the general store.
Saw him a picture book of a whale, shooting its spout and flashing its tail.

Then he got him a sailor's dream 'bout cruising around on the salty sea,
Joining up with a whaling crew to go out and get him a whale or two.

Tell me what kind of men are these that sail around on the salty seas,
Up in the rigging in the afternoon, swabbing the deck and sharpening harpoons.

Hooray, up she rises.
Hooray, up she rises.
Hooray, up she rises.
Early in the morning.

Lots of whales in the deep blue sea. We kill them for the industry.
Drag 'em alongside and cut 'em up, too. Melt 'em down and sell it to you.

There hardly is a sailor alive, who can keep a tear from his eye,
As he remembers the good old days when there were no whales to save.

Now we can thank the companies for scouring the deep, blue sea.
Looking for ivory and perfume, and oil to light your living room.


Shanghaied by the light of the moon, put out of Boston in the middle of June.
After six months out at sea, nothing but death and misery.

Set out on a three year cruise, a union ship and union dues,
And after a while you begin to see that whaling's not what it used to be.

You got a modern ship and a modern crew, sonar scopes and exploding harpoons.
A mechanical boat made out of steel, a floating machine to kill the whale.


Repeat First Verse.