| Lyrics: | Up in Massachusetts There's a little spit of land.
The men who make the maps, yes, they call the
place Cape Ann.
The men who do the fishing call it Gloucester Harbor Sound,
But the women
left behind, they call the place Dogtown.
The men go out for whaling, past the
breakers and the fogs.
The women stay home waiting they're protected by the dogs.
A tough
old whaler woman who had seen three husbands drown,
Polled the population and she named the
place Dogtown.
There's all these grey faced women in their black widow's
gowns,
Living in this grave yard granite town.
Yeah, you soon learn there's many more than
one way to drown;
That's while going to the dogs here in Dogtown.
And she speaks:
My father was a merchant all in the Boston fief.
When my husband came and asked him for my
hand.
But little did I know then that a Gloucester whaler's wife
Marries but the sea salt
and the sand.
He took me up to Dogtown the day I was a bride.
We had ten days
together before he left my side.
He's the first mate of a whaling ship,
the keeper of the
log.
He said, "Farewell, my darling, I'm going to leave you with my dog."
And I
have seen the splintered timbers of a hundred shattered hulls,
Known the silence of the granite
and the screeching of the gulls,
I've heard that crazy widow Cather walk the harbor as she
raves
At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.
Sitting by the fireside, the
embers slowly die.
Is it a sign of weakness when a woman wants to cry?
The dog is closely
watching the fire glints in his eye.
No use to go to sleep this early, no use to even
try.
My blood beats like a woman's,
I've got a woman's breast and t |
