The Newfoundlander

The Newfoundlander
By Davey Lee George
(C) 1/2001 All Rights Reserved

I’s trudged de line from ‘arbor Grace,
and from Carbonear ter Gander,
and walked along de Lamaline
on many a days’ meander.

I’s walked dem lines inspecting track
fer de Newfie Bullet’s run,
and checked de ties and set ‘em right
‘afore each day were done.

‘Twar mean at times with deep’nin’ snow,
or when de ground ’twere hard
from frost that cuts ye to de bone,
and danger’s in de cards.

I’s sailed de schooners to de ice,
down to de Laberdar,
to work de seals and fetch ‘em back
when de ‘pity’s all de mar’.

Fer many’s de times I’s come back home
with naught to show but flippers,
with’ all de hides belongin’ to
de first mate and de skipper.

To lowly shoremen what does work,
and blows on danger’s whistle,
‘twould seems ter me our share should be
some bit mar than gristle.

I’s set de cod traps on de bays
when a sane one would not go,
and went ter fetch dem back again
amidst a narthern blow.

But onct theys out thar in de tide,
’tis only right that I
should work dem as day needs ter be,
fer it’s useless ter be shy.

I’s built me stages on de cliffs,
and set me splits ter dry,
and when I finishes doing it
de weather it goes wry.

So back de comes into the star’,
and back into de salt,
to wait a minute fer de sun,
as like it’s all me fault.

And, too, I’s set out on me stage
in evenings when de air
is pure and filled with lovely t’ings
that looks and smells so fair.

For dis be Newfoundland me b’y
and ever t’ings okay,
wit’ me belly filled wit’ fish and brewis,
it’s de finest kind o’ day.