40 South

Minimal Jim Contact

This is a song about the Clippers, packet and whaling ships that ventured round Cape Horn in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s.

“Cape Horn (Dutch: Kaap Hoorn, Spanish: Cabo de Hornos), named after the city of Hoorn in the Netherlands, is the southernmost headland of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago of southern Chile, and is located on the small Hornos Island. Although not the most southerly point of South America (which are the Diego Ramírez Islands), Cape Horn marks the northern boundary of the Drake Passage and marks where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans collide. For decades it was a major milestone on the clipper route, by which sailing ships carried trade around the world. The waters around Cape Horn are particularly hazardous, owing to strong winds, large waves, strong currents and icebergs; these dangers have made it notorious as a sailors’ graveyard.”

Lyrics

Listen to this tale of long ago,
At the end of the world where the albatross roam,
When the clippers, and the whalers where sailing thru the horn,
They crossed the line, at the end of the world,
Into a deep, and dark unknown

Three months gone from the docks of England,
We’re bound for Frisco round the horn,
The whisky’s gone and the rats are leaving,
And we’ll know hell before it’s morn.
———
Haul on the bowlin man,
Haul on the line,
Haul on the bowlin man,
The packet she’s a a-rollin down the line.
———
It got dark, as I recall,
Night came before Sun-fall,
Light Strands, burned the sky
then came the waves..
————
we crossed the line at the end of the world,
40 south is the dead man’s pearl;
The ice winds snap as the sails endure,
And the yards bend the main, as the ship,
she rolls and curls..
————
Darkness swept in cold and hard,
Eclipsed the sun and sky
The vast dark sea, it pounded on,
insane before our eyes
————
and they say that 40 south is hell at sea,
and at 50 south even God will leave
the west winds rage like a nightmare dream),
and the waves are like walls, the waves are walls – moving free
————
Haul on the bowlin man,
Haul on the line,
Haul on the bowlin man,
Just hole ‘er fast, and we’ll get home alive.
———-
Set a course were the trade winds a-blowing,
A gentle breeze, and a rollin sea,
If you don’t see me on the docks in the morning,
I’ll meet you home in fiddler’s green.