I listened to the words of the song,
“And Captain Logan he had us mangled,
At the triangles of Moreton Bay”.
That such a placid sunlit place was once the scene of inhuman brutality, was hard to believe.
Later I walked along Logan Road named after the bloody Captain and I have since wondered just how many historical and present-day bastards are immortalised in such a manner.
Perhaps debasement is easier to remember than achievement.
Personally I prefer achievement.
Consequently, in the following song ‘Queensland Whalers’, I once again refer to the adaptability of men who had indeed worked at everything prior to stepping on board the whale ships.
The early fires of struggle in Australia surely forged a metal of its own. I found the temper of this metal in the character of the ‘Have-a-go, Aussies!’ when I whaled at Moreton Bay. HR
Click to play the introduction
Lyrics and Music: 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.
Sing Ho! You Queensland whalers, who have cut the sugar cane,
And drove the 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’ve come to Moreton Bay, to catch the Humpback whale.
For men who’ve chased the brumbies, caught bullocks by the tail,
It really is no problem to catch a Humpback whale.
Just spur your iron seahorse, 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 crows nest, as whaling legend goes,
Looks out across the water and then cries, “Thar she blows!”
But here in sunny Queensland you’ll sometimes 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 that’s down.
But their taste for blood and savagery, it never could compare
With the bite that Inland Revenue took from our bonus share.
When fuel tanks were running low, we’d sail to Brisbane town
And at the nearest boozer our sorrows we would drown,
With beer and fiery whiskey and plonk of vintage rare
We’d steer a steady zigzag course without a blasted care.
Hooray, the season’s over and we can all return,
To greet our wives and sweethearts and have a little fun,
We’ll rant like cattle drovers, we’ll roar like whaling men,
But when the season starts next year you’ll find us back again.
© Harry Robertson,
and subsequently ©1995 Mrs Rita Robertson, Brisbane, AUSTRALIA
Registered with APRA/AMCOS www.apra-amcos.com.au
Click to play the track