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I'm a Newfoundlander, brought up in an outport,
In a little town in Bonavista Bay;
I have fond memories of my daddy saying,
"Come on, son, we're going out the bay."
I helped to lug the gear down to the landwash,
My dad would stow it underneath the seat;
He'd look at me and smile when we had it all aboard,
"Son, don't forget that jigger on the beach."
In an hour we'd be out there by the ol' rock,
With the paddles I would keep her against the tide;
He'd say, "Pass me down that jigger in the cuddy, boy,"
And then he'd gently lower it over the side.
"Now, son, you know we've got to get our mark right,"
At first, I never quite knew what he meant;
He'd say, "Line up in a point with that birch tree over there,
'Cause this old spot has never failed me yet."
Now, my old cod jigger's hanging on a wall out in the shed,
'Cause you can't jig a fish no more, that's what the government said;
Too little, too late, now we all have to pay, hey, hey,
There's not much left to take now that the jigger's taken away.
There's nothing really quite like the feeling,
When your jigger hooks onto a big ol' cod;
I never thought I'd see the day a Newfie boy,
Would take the right of our ol' cod jigger away.
Now, the jigger that we jigged with was my grandpa's,
My daddy used it when he was a kid;
I'm gonna send it to my kinfolk as a souvenir,
'Cause it's only gonna rust down in the shed.
Now, my old cod jigger's hanging on a wall out in the shed,
'Cause you can't jig a fish no more, that's what the government said;
Too little, too late, now we all have to pay, hey, hey,
There's not much left to take now that the jigger's taken away.
No, there's not much left to take now that the jigger's taken away.
