We’ll sing a song of Whitby town
And the years that have flown by
Waves pounding on the harbour walls
And the guillemot’s sad cry
Of nights we supped
In the old "Board Inn"
As North Sea winds blew hard
Then rolling home in the dark midnight
To rooms up Miller’s Yard.
We’ll sing a song of Caedmon
Just a cowherd so they say
Who charmed the monks and Hilda - she
Who drove the snakes away.
Of days we mended
As we gossiped on the quay
And gulls flew out to fishing boats
Returning from the sea.
We’ll sing a song of poor James Cook
And his ships all Whitby-made
From oaks that grew down by the Esk
May our memories never fade
Of the bold "Endeavour"
Red duster flapping from her mast
And Whitby lads onboard.
Yes, we’ll sing a song of Whitby town
And the people that we knew
That plied their trades and earned a crust
Down the alleys where they grew.
Just like the mighty harbour walls
That keep the town secure
With Viking blood
From Yorkshire roots