There's this, from Williams's own "Studies in American Folk Song" (1895):

"There is another whaling song, entitled The Coast of Peru, and undoubtedly the work of a forecastle poet, which is worth preserving, despite its homeliness, for its genuine flavor, and as a relic of the old days before steam whalers and bomb lances took so much of the romance out of the fishery.



THE COAST OF PERU.

Come, all ye bold sailors,
Who sail 'round Cape Horn,
Come, all the bold whalers,
Who cruise 'round for sperm.
The Captain has told us,
And I hope't will prove true
That there's plenty of sperm whales
Off the coast of Peru.

The first whale we saw
Near the close of the day.
Our Captain came on deck,
And thus he did say :
"Now all my bold sailors,
Pray be of good glee,
For we 'll see him in the morning,
P'raps under our lee."

It was early next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
The man at the mast-head
Called out, "There she blows!"
"Whereaway ?" cried our Captain,
As he sprang up aloft.
"Three points on our lee bow,
And scarce two miles oft."

"Now trace up your yards, boys,
We '11 fasten anear.   
Get your lines in your boats,
See your box [sic] lines all clear;
Haul back the main yard, boys,
Stand by, each boat's crew,
Lower away, lower away,
My brave fellows, do."

"Now, bend to your oars, boys,
Just make the boat fly,
But whatever you do, boys,
Keep clear from his eye."
The first mate soon struck,
And the whale he went down,
While the old man pulled up,
And stood by to bend on.

But the whale soon arose;
To the windward he lay.
We hauled up 'longside,
And he showed us fair play.
We caused him to vomit,
Thick blood for to spout,
And in less than ten minutes
We rolled him "fin out."

We towed him alongside
With many a shout,
That day cut him in,
And began to boil out.
Oh, now he's all boiled out
And stowed down below,
We're waiting to hear 'em,
Sing out, "There she blows!"


Williams goes on to say,

"It is extremely doubtful if the Dago sailors and foreign 'longshoremen, who now make such a large portion of the crews of the Arctic steam whalers, are capable of even such rude verse as this, and the poetry of the whale fishery is now as extinct as the glory of Nantucket and the sea flavor of New Bedford. Like some greater things it may be regretted, but cannot be recovered."

He gives no source or melody.