Many songs are sung about whaling and whalers. Almost all describe a voyage, or the catch of a whale, or some of the men and their needs. This song, written by Harry Robertson, describes the bonechilling existence of the men who stayed with the ships when they were laid up for the winter, doing routine maintenance and engine overhaul in the clammy, unheated holds and engine rooms. I learned this song from Gary Gardner and Helen Kivnick. (E.T.)
In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through
your soul,
How we huddled 'round that wee
pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.
How the winter blizzards blow,
and the whaling fleet's at rest,
Tucked in Leith harbor's sheltered
bay, safely anchored ten abreast.
The whalers at their stations,
as from shed to shed they go,
Carry little bags of coal with them,
and a little iron stove.
The fireman Paddy worked with me
on the engine, stiff and cold.
A stranger to the truth was he;
there's not a lie he hasn't told.
And he boasted of his gold mine,
and of all the hearts he'd won,
And his bonny sense of humor shone
just like a ray of sun.
Then one day we saw the sun and the
factory ships' return.
Meet your old friends, sing a song,
hope the season won't be long.
Then homeward bound when it's over,
we'll leave this icy hold,
But I always will remember that
little iron stove.