In Memory of the KYLE

MURIEL WAY

So there she lies, a rusty hulk, on the shore of Harbour Grace.

But yet there never was a ship to ever take her place.

Well known, I’m told by young and old. She plouqhed along the shore

From the foggy banks of Newfoundland to the coast of Labrador.

But she was slow, as we all know. No record broken for speed.

She always carried the freight and mail. What more would a feller need?

She burnt the coal, and bless my soul, the stokers face was black.

‘T was only the whites of his eyes you saw, and his work was never slack.

There was lots of food and it was good, with even a bit to spare.

But some got sick and pretty quick, ‘cause she rolled like a polar bear.

When the weather was fine, with hook and line, you could fish along the way,

Enjoy the sun and watch the fun as the porpoises jump and spray.

You could dance on deck and some would neck when music chanced to slack.

They’d kiss and spoon beneath the moon behind the old smoke-stack.

The music room was always full, no seat to save your life.

And the air so thick in the smoking room you could cut it with a knife.

Oh, they tales they told as the night grew old, and the cards once more

they’d stack.

Your legs moved slow as you went below when ‘twas time to hit the sack.

You slept like a log or a tired old dog ‘til the steward rang the bell.

For a moment there you could almost swear and wish that feller in hell.

Then she’d get up steam and the whistle would scream when into some

harbour fine,

With a moment to spare while she anchored there, you’d get out your

fishin’ line.

But her days are done with all the fun. She sails the sea no more.

And the only sound as she lies aground is the wind along the shore.

You can take a trip on a Crosby ship, or the Sir Robert Bond so fine.

Brittania, too, I’m telling you, can grace any harbour line.

Or a cruiser ship on the southern seas where you can dress in style.

I’d trade them all, the great and small, just to travel on the KYLE.