Print This Page#02864 Print This Page
There's a little town called Island Cove, not far from Harbour Grace,
It is nestled in Conception Bay, which seems the proper place;
The women there are happy, the men are just the same,
They would do most anything just to play a game.
The place it is all rock and stone, you won't find tree or log,
One man sent to the States for a stick to beat his dog;
One day a mountie drove in there, the weather it was fine,
He was lookin' for a man he said who was runnin' off moonshine.
An old man sittin' on a rock, a-lookin' out the bay,
Whispered to the mountie, and this to him did say:
The man who makes the moonshine here is tall and very slim,
I wouldn't want the folks to know that I informed on him.
The mountie said, God bless you, sir, no one will ever know,
As soon as you reveal his name, out of here I'll go;
The old man lit his pipe and smiled, and puffed that smoke so blue,
The man who makes the moonshine here makes the sunshine, too.
