Well he’s off to Nova Scotia in the morning

Where the whales sing and ice burgs touch the sky

He’s tired of the fusty stale old workhouse

And he needs the salty sea to spark his eye.

He remembers when he was a child of nine years old

To Newfoundland he surely found his way

The ocean was his home

Wherever he did roam

And Penzance was a lonely place to stay.

Well he’s off to Nova Scotia in the morning

His bag is packed his paints are put away

He’s had enough of haunting Back Road West you see

And he’s off to Nova Scotia for the day.

Last night in Harrys Court he came a knocking

He told me that the experts had it wrong.

Just cos in about half a dozen photographs

He was looking rather sad, his face was long.

He laughs and tells me that the sea’s his lover

His paintings they don’t really mean a thing

They’re just an aide memoire, a quick reminder

Of how it is to live and laugh and sing.

He wants to go to where the whales are calling

And ice burgs they are big as any town

The waves get up as high as Truro’s Cathedral spire

And there’s no-one there to try and bring him down.

So he’s off to Nova Scotia in the morning

Back to when he was a little lad

He’s leaving this behind

All his troubles of every kind

To go where the whales sing and men are glad.