"Not Exactly Yachting" as Fishermen Race: Schooner Days CCC (300)

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C. J. Daly, in the Lunenburg Progress-Enterprise, Gives a Salt Water Variant of Racing as the French and Scotch Do It in Nova Scotia

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"HE'S SWINGIN' A FULL MAINS'L ON THE LADY O' SHALLOT"

'YE'VE heard how John Bull has been tryin' to lift the America's Cup;

Ye've seen in th' papers that yachtin' seems to be on th' up-an-up.

They've been havin' a flock o' races to Bermuda an' Norway an' all;

But they sails them in summer weather, an' lays th' boats up in th' fall.

Now, down here in Nova Scotia we must sail 'em the whole year round,

For we mostly make our livin' an' we have no fancy sails,

Still, we sail some sportin' races in th' February gales.

Just take th' time, for instance when the "Lady o'Shallot."

With her crew of jumpin' Frenchmen, skippered by Big Joe Buot,

Raced th' schooner "Dancin' Feather," Captain Johnnie Bhan McLeod,

For a trip of cod an' haddock an' a suit of—not so loud!

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Fishin' had been poor that winter, though th' best fares that was got

Came in on th' "Dancin' Feather" or th' "Lady o'Shallot."

"Give me half a break, said Johnnie, "Let me strike th' fish once more,

An' I'll make that gang o' Frenchies wish they'd never left Bras d'Or."

"Dam fine boat, that 'Dancing Feather' I think, me," said Joe Buot,

But hees crew of farmers sail heem lak wan—what you call it?—pot."

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So they slung th' gaff all winter, while th' fishin' got so bad

We might have set our trawls on deck, for all th' luck we had,

Till one mornin,' after runnin' another empty set,

Said Johnnie Bhan: "Now listen, lads, we got just one more bet.

This time o' year, I've seen th' cod on th' coast o' Newfoundland

So thick ye didn't need a trawl—ye could grab 'em in yer hand.

What say we haul our killick up an' let her bear away?

The breeze is fair, an we'll be there before another day."

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So they ran th' "Dancin' Feather" away for Port-aux Basques,

Where they surely found th' fish'n to be all that they could ask.

An' Johnnie like to bust his vest he swelled so much with pride.

As he watched th' cod and haddock come a slidin' overside.

"That's a coat for little Johnnie, an' new shoes an' stockin's there,

And th' missis sad she wanted some new-fangled underwear,

Get th' lashin's on your dories, for th' glass is kind o' low,

Better double-reef th' mains'l for I think we'll get a blow.

But she's cornin' from th' East'ard an' unless she hauls to Sout',

We'll be ridin' at North Sydney t'morrow noon or thereabout.

An' will that crew o'dogfish an' that sculpin, Joe Buot,

Turn pink an' green with envy when they see th' fish we've got!"

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Said the helmsman: "Skipper Johnnie, what you make o' that off there?"

Johnnie peered into th' snow-squall, looked again, and tore his hair,

In ballast-trim th' Feather can outsail THAT any day.

I know you need th' money, but it breaks my heart, by God!

T'see that Frenchie trim us for a mess o' stinkin' cod.

There's plenty where we got 'em an' we'll go back for more

But I'll beat that lop-eared sculpin', if I have to swim ashore!"

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"By the Seven Southern Sisters! If it isn't Joe Buot,

An' he's swingin' a full main'sl on th' Lady o' Shallot

Hey! You dagoes! Tumble up there! Shake them reefs out double quick!

I won't let that froggie pass me if I carry out th' stick."

And soon the the gallant "Feather" was a'sailin' on her ear,

But still th' Lady drew ahead 'till Johnnie said: "Look here,

She's a trifle overloaded, so if you're willin', why

Let's drop a of those dam' fish an' watch her walkin' by.'

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So they yanked th' hatches open, an' they slung th' haddock out

Till th' Feather passed th' Lady, an' Johnnie turned to shout:

"I'm headin' for North Sydney, Joe; if there's anything ye lack,

We'll be pleased t'have it ready when we meet ye comin' back."

An' everything was lovely on th' plucky little craft

Till again they spied th' Lady comin' hell-for-leather aft;

With Big Joe so excited that he nearly dropped th' wheel,

An' he sure did drop his English as he turned his head to squeak

"Ahoy! La sacree vache de mer! You call me that a boat?

I report you two week overdue so your mere she know you're out!"

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"Boys, it's tough!" said Johnnie, "But I see no other way;

In ballast-trim th' Feather can outsail THAT any day.

I know you need th' money, but it breaks my heart, by God!

T'see that Frenchie trim us for a mess o' stinkin' cod.

There's plenty where we got 'em an' we'll go back for more

But I'll beat that lop-eared sculpin', if I have to swim ashore!"

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So across th' Gulf they drove 'em until th' break o' day

An' th' sun came up to watch 'em runnin' in for Spanish Bay.

An' if ye stretched a cod-line from Cran Rock to Flat Point Shoal,

Ye couldn't tell which broke it for to save your 'mortal soul.

An' they rounded up together, an' stood bowin' to th' town,

While th' ripples flowed together from th' anchors goin' down.

"You sail wan dam' fine race, my frien'," said grinning Joe Buot,

"An' now you go ashore for sell dose cod an' haddock, what?

I t'row mine overboard, wan time, for mak' her go more queek,

But now de race she's ovair, out, I'm feelin' plentee seek."

An' Johnnie laughed until th' tears ran down into his boots,

"I did th' same thing, Joe," he said—"What a pair o' dam' galoots*!

Th' missis she'll be sore as hell, an' say she's drafty where—

But we sailed a race, if we lost our fish—Big Joe, will ye put her there?"