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For centuries our island home fought economic games,
Like a fishing schooner bearing up against the wind and tide;
We lacked the fish and crew and power to work the ship and sails,
And the giant rolling combers kept breaking overside.
But just as hope was waning and our strength was well nigh spent,
We got a tow from Britain in the evening dark and grey;
She had lost her top main staysail, and when her foremast went,
She signaled that she'd have to slip our towline any day.
Now Canada was standing by in case we needed aid,
We were making heavy weather as the tempest howled and roared;
We called all hands together, and the next tack that we made,
Skipper Joey luffed her up alongside and hove a line aboard.
We heard a shout of welcome from the ship's crew up ahead,
As the line came straight and taut we saw a fair gone break;
The good ship Canada sailed on with all her canvas spread,
And we found the going smoother as we travelled in her wake.
As fellow Newfoundlanders watched from countries near and far,
Our sturdy little vessel ploughing bravely on her way,
Right knowingly they judged the strain on every rope and spar,
As proudly off her weathered bow she tosses sheets of spray.
For ears tuned to familiar sounds can hear the famous cries,
The eyes of love can conquer space, can pierce the darkest night;
High on the hearth's horizon they see her topsails rise,
They recognize her flying jib, they glimpse her guiding light.
And though a little fog blows up to close us in at times,
Our schooner still is shipshape, she's well and truly manned;
And when we've shipped our dories and stowed our fishing lines,
The confederation cable should help us reach the land.
