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On the eighteenth of November, as ye all will remember,
The day it been a fine one, and frosty too, you know;
As the evening kept advancing, they kept teasing me about dancing,
And to suit their foolish fancy I did agree to go.
I knew I'd be accepted but really wasn't expected,
It been so long since I'd been to anything like this before;
Through the door I boldly entered, to the ballroom floor I ventured,
I addressed the porter gently as I stepped inside the door.
Five cents was the admission, and I'm sure it's no addition,
To add it all together the sum it was but small;
And the old Giant in the center with the fire red and a-ranting,
And fire wood you know was plenty, those logs were never small.
When the boys got out dancing, I bet there was no prancing,
For every boy and girl had come to do the best they could;
Then someone made a blunder like a double clap of thunder,
But no one seemed to wonder, the sport was going good.
I gazed around the building, it was really quite bewildering,
When something struck upon my sight a little space ahead;
I discovered it was an altar where Mass was oft times offered,
But tonight it's decorated with buns of daily bread.
Oh the waiters they were seven, between ten and eleven,
You could bet they were funny when the table it was set;
When the soup it started coming there were boys with boilers running,
It made you all feel funny to see what you were going to get.
The table seated twenty and the soup you know was plenty,
The bread and buns went with it to make it all go good;
And what it was made out of there was no odds about it,
But no one seemed to doubt it, for the taste it was quite good.
When the supper it was over, like a storm in the Straits of Dover,
The music never slackened and the dancers still held on;
The old women started dancing and in bunches they went prancing,
I thought they were going frantic, we had a jolly time.
It was four or five o'clock before anyone would stop,
They had another supper it was just as much or more;
And I'm sure it won't be eaten, no neither will it be equaled,
And I'm sure it won't be beaten neither up nor down the shore.
Sung at many a party by Fergus Fulford of Merasheen, NL, and published for the 1980 Merasheen Reunion in Placentia Bay, NL, by Loyola Pomroy and Bill Wilson.
A variant was collected in 1983 from Pius Power, Sr. of Southeast Bight, NL, by Genevieve Lehr and Anita Best and published as #99 in Come And I Will Sing You: A Newfoundland Songbook, pp.172-173, edited by Genevieve Lehr (University of Toronto Press © 1985/2003).
Genevieve Lehr noted that this song was written about a local 'Time' — probably the most popular form of socializing and entertainment in rural Newfoundland until recent years. These 'Times' usually included a 'sale of works,' 'soup supper,' and a dance later in the evening. Children were always allowed to stay and were bundled up in coats and put to sleep on the tables and desks in the school or hall. Baby-sitting was a function of the community. Giant was the brand name of an old wood and coal stove.
Recorded as The Soup Supper In Clattice Harbour by Anita Best (Crosshanded, 1997, Amber Music, Topsail, NL).
