THE FISHING HAS FAILED           Don Henderson

   F            Dm        Bb            F
My father's own father he worked on the sea,
                  Dm          Bb         C
And passed on his love of the fishing to me.
     F           Bb         F           C
Hard work, but a man really knows he's alive
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When he casts out his nets where the fishes they thrive.


For, once, in a rowboat they'd welcome the sun,
One cast of the nets to get fish by the ton,
Then row back to shore in the chill morning light,
To market, then homeward to rest for the night,


Ch:
    But now we cast deeper and nothing comes up:

    It's plain that too many have drunk from the cup.

    No more the fresh harvest of silvery scales,

    It's hard to accept that the fishing has failed.


Now we stay out for weeks as our catches decline,
We curse Russian trawlers and Japanese lines.
Far south to the waters of Tassie we go,
Where many a boat has been lost in a blow.


The prawns and the Tuna are nearly all gone.
Purse Seiners take all, and it doesn't take long.
Once fishing was good and a joy to a man,
But now times are hard and it's catch as catch can.

Ch.

But still we keep going, what else can we do?
There are banks to be paid, and our families too,
But the harder we work in the cold and the wet,
The fewer the fish and the deeper in debt,


Where will it all end? Well I really can't say,
But soon my old boat will be tied up to stay.
I'll work on the land and no more go to sea,
For a great empty ocean is no use to me.


Ch,  Repeat 2nd 1/2