Nic Jones The Little Pot Stove
How the winter blizzards blow, and the whaling fleet's at rest,
Tucked in Leigh harbor's sheltered bay, safely anchored ten abreast.
The whalers at their stations, as from shed to shed they go,
Carry little bags of coal with them, and a little iron stove.
In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through your soul,
How we huddled round that wee pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.
The fireman Paddy worked with me on the engine stiff and cold.
A stranger to the truth was he - there's not a lie he hasn't told.
And he boasted of his gold mine, and of all the hearts he'd won,
And his bonny sense of humor shone just like a ray of sun.
In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through your soul,
How we huddled round that wee pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.
We labored seven days a week, with cold hands and frozen feet.
Bitter days and lonely nights making grog and having fights
Salt fish and whalemeat sausage, fresh penguin eggs a treat
And we trudged along to work each day through icy winds and sleet.
In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through your soul,
How we huddled round that wee pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.
Then one day we saw the sun and factory ships' return.
Meet your old friends, sing a song; hope the season won't be long,
Then homeward bound when it's over; we'll leave this icy cove,
But I always will remember that little iron stove.
In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through your soul,
How we huddled round that wee pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.
