I wrote this ' poem ' ( which I later set to music ) a few years ago following a true incident in the Black Horse pub in Whitby . My friend and I had sung the Greenland Whale in the crowded pub when an elderly sailor beckoned me across to relate this story which he maintained was true. I am hardly holding this up for its literary worth !! but I hope others may find it interesting and a link with the past and with Whitby . The pencil drawings of the fishermen are still very much in evidence on the wall of this lovely pub which is very welcoming for informal songs and tunes , particularly during Whitby Folk Week and The Moor And Coast Festival.   


                  WHITBY'S LAST WHALE


The pencil portraits on the walls
Of sailors here or drowned
Fail to convey real history
In the Black Horse , Whitby Town .
Their old ways may be passed now
But their stories still remain ......
The catching of Whitby's last whale
Brought tears, remorse and pain.


The weather-beaten fisherman
Sipped ale in smoke-filled bar .
His tears welled up and trickled down,
Made me realise how far
Reality can overcome
Made-up tales beneath the mast !
We'd sung Greenland Whale in harmony
But HIS whale song....unsurpassed !


And when our song was finished
He beckoned me across..
Relating in slow , measured way
His sense of hurt and loss.
I filled his glass.He wiped his eye.
From his mouth there trickled truth.
No sentimental claptrap here...
No imaginings of youth !


He told me how in recent times
Whilst hauling in their net ,
Twelve miles from Whitby Town his mates
And him were shocked, upset .
They'd dragged a whale exhausted ,
Reluctant from the tide,
Tried quickly to revive it
For such slaughter they'd deride !


Cracked voice choked with emotion
As salt tears filled his eye !
He knew that this great creature's death
They could never justify.
For catching indiscriminately
Had always been the way
But on that craft,that time, that place...
A price the whale would pay.


Tough men , openly weeping
Helped it slip back to the deep..
No spark of life, flourish of tail,
No breath...perpetual sleep !
But the memory had not faded
For him to the present day ...
Acknowledging it had been hard
He'd been glad to have his say.

Now when I hear a whaling song...
Can't think of sharp harpoon.
For of his tale - my vision's strong....
I see Black Horse salt - and soon
I then recall what him befell,
The look in that whale's eyes ...
Its NOT the manner of the kill
But the WHALE and its demise .


The pencil portraits on the wall
Of sailors lost or drowned
Fail to convey real history
In the Black Horse,Whitby town .
Their old ways may be passed now
But their stories will remain....
The catching of Whitby's last whale
Brought tears, remorse and pain .

DAVID NUTTALL