There was never much romance in fishing – that’s just trawlermen’s tales at the bar;
It was mostly low pay, and at the end of the day it was dangerous, dirty and hard;
There were times when we made a good living, now we can’t make ends meet like we could;
We’re up to our necks, so we’re clearing the decks – getting out while the going is good.
So I’m saying goodbye to the seas, lads, saying goodbye to the sea,
Goodbye to the fishing, goodbye to the nets; the nearer it comes, lads, the harder it gets;
When you’re sailing her out for the grounds, lads, you’ll be sailing her out without me,
There’s a lump in me throat as I’m burning my boats and I’m saying goodbye to the sea.
Well I don’t mind the back-breaking labour, and I don’t mind the weeks out from home;
I don’t expect catches where you can’t close the hatches – for I know that the old days are gone;
I’m sick of this scrimping and saving, and the bankers that make your life hell;
And the ministry fools with their quotas and rules, and the Frenchies just pleasing themselves.
So it’s nine-to-five Monday to Friday – with me clock-card I’m a cog in the wheel,With butties and flask and some trivial task for some spotty lad with a degree;
Well he’ll not last a couple of minutes on the dark rolling deck of a trawler,
For where computers are king he’s the ruler of things, but me I’m just a fish out of water.