A whale, a whale, gracious as few,
gliding through the sand.
The blubber hunters stand in queue,
will he stop and make a stand?
Onwards, onwards glides the whale
through the forest now he moves.
The trees all bend to give him way,
the beasts hide in the groves.
Behold, behold the flying trout,
swooping down to feast.
In the wake of their cruel sport
remains no bird or beast.
Their wings, their wings, coloured crimson
by the bleeding prey they hunt
'tis doubtless the height of the hunting season
when the trout's teeth get blunt.
A man, a man sits by his stove
in his village house so safe.
No fear nor sorrow does he know,
not knowing of the forest strife.
He thinks, he thinks, and ponders some
on mundane tasks so dull.
He's filled a requisition form,
he'll build himself a mull.
A mull, a mull, a hill so fine,
in the garden of his house.
To be covered, nay hid by strands of vine
around which he can dowse.
Dowse, dowse for water or wines
around his mull he will,
trimming the hillsides with watery lines
planting the brook-beds with dill.
Return, return now, to the whale
the hunt not far behind.
His face will soon be turning pale
if he no help can find.
A sound, a sound of wings that beat
can suddenly now be heard.
The huntsmen turn and face defeat,
that surely is no bird!
The school, the school of trout aflight
descends upon the men.
They scream and run in dreadful fright
relieved the whale is then.
He glides, he glides, like lightening quick
towards the forest's edge
Meanwhile, the poor men have no trick
to ward off the scaly sledge.
A sledge, a sledge, of scales and fins
with teeth as sharp as knives.
The huntsmen's death-throes now begin,
woe be to their wives!
At last, at last, the whale is free
rushing out of the trees.
Soon the danger past will be
he dances in the breeze.
Meanwhile, meanwhile, back in the town
the bureaucrats have judged.
No hill nor mull the man can own,
he had the law misjudged.
Alas, alas the vine-covered slopes
will never see the light.
In his garden now he mopes
the sun now seems less bright.
Such pains! Such pains! the whale now yells
a sudden burst he feels.
The hunt may still take its final toll
though trout the huntsmen peels.
The whale, the whale, though he prays his best
his heart will beat no more.
Upon the grass he lays to rest,
he's reached his final shore.
What now, what now, the man speaks out
a whale upon his lawn.
Luckily, he is no lout,
the seed of a plan is born.
With stones, with stones, with dirt and soil,
he covers the carcass in full.
Hours and hours of endless toil,
the man at last got his mull.
And if, and if the law-men now
come ask "what have you here?"
The man can merely tell them how
"'tis merely a grave, sincere."
