Oh, my Donald, he works on the sea With the waves blowing wild and free He splices the ropes and sets the sail Now he is a Wattie, the home of the whale Oh, he ne'er thinks of me far behind Oh, the torments that rage in my mind He's mine for only half part of the year Then I'm left all alone with naught but a tear Oh, good ladies, who smell the wild rose Think he fell your perfume to where a man goes Think he o'er the ways and beneath the yon Cause that man ne'er return from hunting the sperm Oh, my Donald, he works on the sea On the waves that blow wild and free He splices the ropes and sets the sail And he is a Wattie, the home of the whale *