tales-of-Fogo-Island

Loading the Tractor Sleds Up With Fred SmallBy Donovan BurkeAttention ye lumbermen listen to meI am a poor poet please excuse me.I left my old home out on Fogo IsleTo travel a distance of sixty-five miles.Sixty-five miles with our snowshoes tied onMyself and young Terry we toddled along.Arriving at Lewisporte, labour full bentThe very first train, into Bishops we went.We walked to the depot, they say it's four milesThere Billy Macdonald, we met with a smile.Saying, 'if I can land ye, a job now at allTwill be loading the tractor sleds, up with Fred Small'.Forty mile more, we attacked on the roadTwo small shackles of iron, we slipped in our load,That Mick Cook he wanted, for sleds up the line.We jogged right along, while the weather was fineEarly that evening, we arrived at the Camp.The men they came in, their shirts they were damp.Some men were short, some others were tallFor loading the tractor sleds, up with Fred Small.Early next morning, Fred Small he did say,Boys follow me, and I'll show you the way.In the main road, up on a hillThere were the tractor sleds, lying stock-still.Jim Southern is driving the tractor you knowMoaning and groaning in four feet of snow.Main Small, his breaksman, is nearly as bad,Tormenting old fellows, making them mad.Moving the sleds, by the landing alongChewing tobacco, and saying things wrong.Never a batch of snow round here did fallTo hinder Jim Southern, up with Fred Small.