From those small fields of England so vividly green
Across waters wide and deep and often real mean
To CANADA - land of wide open spaces
Where green men take hell to hold their places.
Such was the setting in all aspects true
And many were the days I lived to rue.
So think of me, reader, in the year 'twenty-three,
In sports coat and breeches, overawed by the sea,
Suitcase in one hand that August eleven;
Greenest horn under the skies of heaven.
Just twelve more days for me were there to be
Ere I pondered on that word "liberty."
A man's life true is reckoned in years as a rule
But those five thousand odd miles had banished the fool
From gentle shores to this stern distant land.
It held up for me a forbidding hand.
Then why did I leave that cradle called home?
How I wished now I was back on the foam.
But to retrace this story for just a short time
And so put first things in first here within the rhyme.
A large pair of boots and heavy come striding in.
An episode unhappy with which to begin.
They were an unfortunate gift now I see
So kindly meant - but how they haunted me.
Twenty-odd years have passed yet clearly I recall
In Huddersfield - that little shop - I can see them all,
Those rows and rows of boots in nice white boxes.
How could emerge such things so obnoxious!
My Father said, "A farmer's boy should own
A strong heavy pair to reap and sow in."
That's quite all right - I got 'em. We didn't inquire
Or even suspect a climate hot and drier.
More comfort to a lighter boot would yield.
To me every field was a battle field.
I tried them out on deck two hours a day
Then, dejected, I would stow 'em away.
Spacious welts, two sizes big, and for the filling
Three pairs of socks lay in contented and quite willing.
Those uppish boots, the toes just wouldn't bend.
Up I went, down I went, always on end.
I teetered on those boots till I was dizzy.
Massaging my feet fair kept me busy.
How blue the Heavens surround this the central scene,
The deck a patch of light upon the seas blue green;
Cleaving westerly through that rolling swell
Away from the land that I loved so well;
The ship a dot in that watery sheet
Where distant horizons and ocean meet.
The radiant setting sun, his slanting light diffuses.
The sky and the sea reflect his fiery muses;
The colors broken up on the foam's crest
As a stiff breeze rises there in the West.
Slowly the colors fade out then die
And stars twinkle almost filling the sky.
A maze of bright lights fashions the ship, comely and warm,
Casting long beams upon the water's dark'ning form.
She rises and falls with even motion
Synchronized to her mistress the ocean.
Scenes of the homeland in memory held;
Heartaches and emotion within me swelled.
A motley throng aboard this ship, nine hundred men
Bound for those harvest fields of Canada so then-
Under that sun from dawn till dark they would
(That shining goal before them to make good)
Suffer heat, thirst, aches and blisters-they tried;
That tough old school did easy them divide.
Some crumpled-up-like paper bags under the weight
Of pitching heavy sheaves for hours until quite late,
Or setting up stooks in endless rhythm
Till finally the jitters it give 'em.
They packed their bags, fuming and headed East-
One hell of a country to say the least.
But it wasn't the country. It wasn't the men;
They should have stayed home-I swear-apushing the pen.
They do injustice to that other land,
Square pegs in round holes-as I understand.
This country needs men who're willing to stick;
Those hardships and blizzards they're there to lick.
Three meals a day and each time three sittings a meal;
For two days we were hungry, living real genteel;
A fine boat she was, a real steady boat.
What optimism!-were we not the goat?
That next morning when the breakfast bell rang
A third were out, we didn't care a hang.
The rough with the smooth, the bad with the good. It seems
That happiness is fickle and only in dreams.
But who lives in dreams is never a man;
Look ahead, that western horizon scan.
Today is with us but yesterday's gone;
Tomorrow's the course to tread firmly on.
Advice is good, preaching too, but what about us
There on our backs, groggy and feeling "wuss and wuss?"
Don't give any of us that preaching line.
We were living but to die would be fine.
Home was receding and slipping away
Into the mists at the end of the day.
Some six bunks in the berth and in three of the beds
Three wan young fellows laid out with hot swimmy heads.
The whiff of the food down the alley way
Turns us sea green, oh, Lord, shoo it away!
And if that steward brings any more grub
Knife him, shoot him, put him out with a club!
We sit up and we stand up and we try out our legs.
Our sore stomachs rebel, almost retch up the dregs.
If we could but die, what would we give!
Still, we know darn well we're going to live,
And there up above, immune from the sea,
Comes music, laughter, such hilarity.
Four nights of this and four days and once in the night
When all things were settling more cosy and quiet,
A huge rolling breaker caught her midriff.
The old boat reeled under that gruelling biff.
A round hundred crocks went crash to the floor;
The noise terrific but we heard no more.
The noise of the engines, unceasing vibration,
The confined heat and all the smells of creation;
The lights always on down there in the berth
And some wag says we're but two miles from earth!
Such piffle talks he, the grim jesting clown,
Then forthwith he points a finger-straight down!
The wind is rising, those portholes, the vessel's eyes
Closed tight; one second light shines through, then the rise
Of windswept water splashes at the glass
Then recedes and the white flecked waters pass;
The light is sandwiched in again then blurred,
Happy play of the sea-minus a word.
But hope after despair like a bubble ascends,
As God's quiet peace after wracking pain transcends;
It purifies the soul and lingers near;
It reaches up, up and basks in the clear.
This life is not measured by years alone.
Like violin strings-it's all in the tone.
Once I stood on the bow and gazed over the side,
The dark waters parting, swirling and rolling wide;
Seemed I could reach them, so low were we down;
Mountains of water there were all around.
She rises as with invisible force,
Tramps those mountains and continues her course.
One morning we woke at daybreak and by heaven's will
All things in our firmament were at peace, were still;
Engines dead, the floor had ceased its shaking.
We marveled, the quiet had eased our aching.
What happy chance had given us this rest?
A heavy fog around the whole ship, pressed.
One spot in that immeasurable spacious sea
Where treacherous icebergs linger in majesty;
Approaching that fog-bound Newfoundland coast
We bided there like a mist shrouded ghost,
The ship's siren wailing its frightening blast,
Warning all vessels on their journeys past.
For twenty-four hours we lay, our course suspended.
We talked in comfort and our ills were mended.
We talked of home in a rational way.
Discomfort gone, we were happy and gay;
How true to life in one way, so to speak,
Down in the abyss then up to the peak.
We nurtured the moment and we gave it full scope;
We conjured up visions and it gave us fond hope;
We had left the homeland disgruntled some
Now ambition stirred for that land to come.
So when that fog had finally lifted
All gloomy thoughts from our minds had sifted.
The sun came out all in sudden splendor;
It touched those wave crests in dancing light and tender
Transformed myriad mist drops to sparkling light
Diffused its genial heat and beamed down bright.
Cabins and rest-rooms bathed in cosy rays
Took on new comfort, after gloomy days.
Then over to starboard (the fog vanished like steam)
Rears a mountain of shear ice all sparkle and gleam;
Magnificent and kingly majestic;
Seeing can, but words haven't expressed it;
That awesome sight of pure glistening white
One ninth in view, towering o'er the ship's height.
Two days on the St. Lawrence, that mighty sea-way
Full seventy miles wide there, clear across the bay;
The sea calm without and all calm within
We celebrate two days with really livin'.
We laze on the deck, gazing out to sea
Somewhere in that maelstrom were prisoners we.
One thousand miles I've traveled or so the song says
But these were the thousand, friend, and those were the days.
We caught up on grub; we drank a fair toast,
Clinked to great Canada-she was the host.
Some celebrated and hung on the rail.
Thus do some react-'tis a sordid tale.
Quebec, that historic old city, comes into view
And with it that famous Quebec bridge looms up too.
Three-fifths of a mile long, it has spans three,
To sail under will be a mystery.
We all swear that funnel will buckle flat.
Who believes this ship will go under that?
A quarter of a mile we must have been away
And that crazy bridge ahead a'stuck in the way.
All were on deck just waiting for the crash.
I'd sooner drown than be made into hash!
I'll bet a fiver we're rent asunder
Then, without a fuss we sailed clear under.
That center span, noted optical illusion,
Is one hundred and fifty feet high—no delusion.
How could we have been fooled and so easy?
After that suspense I feel weak knee-sy.
My fiver's gone but still I'm not quite flat.
I'm still alive and kicking and all that!
Montreal is one hundred and fifty-nine miles
Distant by rail from Old Quebec; we're full of smiles.
Now that last hazard-that-wasn't is past.
The bridge behind us is receding fast.
We see a passenger train proceeding;
That Quebec bridge no repairs is needing.
Journey's end, wonderful words, conjures up visions,
Visions of new life, new hopes, happy decisions.
Would we do well, live to be a credit
Or fall by the wayside, total debit
To that land we were adopting as ours?
Work and hope-those beacons should be the towers.
But pause for a moment, relax and think of us.
Think this thing over, calmly, without any fuss.
Nine hundred men on a trial mission,
All toeing that same line of ambition.
Will our ranks ever remain united?
Will those beacons always be sighted?
As our natures differ, each one from the other,
Each tough job will try us out, we'll rise or smother,
No halfway house on this life paving road
No slipping on another half your load.
A man must win by his own endeavor.
If not then he's hopeless, no use, never.
There came that one evening, as the sun was dying,
Canada, our ship anchored, she was left lying
Out there in the harbor at Montreal.
Come daylight next morning she'd get her call
When some fussy tugs would sure run amok,
Push her and pull her and put her in dock.
These trim little tugs they're just as busy as bees.
Quick on maneuver that bulk they handle with ease.
Their "props" full aswish they bob up and down
Like a stud at the bit, to go they're bound.
Ambition's the key of their endeavor,
Perfect team work so daring and clever.
Then the whine of seagulls, scavengers of the deep,
In hundreds they whirl and circle to catch a peep
Of waste thrown out from ship's dining quarters.
They light in droves and darken the waters.
Screaming they will fight for every last crumb.
They are all around us and still they come.
From Liverpool I remember and for two days
They followed and circled the ship; they knew its ways.
Food would be dropped, they'd whirl, maybe a fight
But otherwise they would never alight.
For countless miles they'd fly upon the wing.
Then, almost unnoticed, would be missing.
Now on good old terra firma we stand once more.
Hats off to Canada, this is Canada's shore.
We are on the threshold and we are on the brink
Of new experiences, now just think,
We've two thousand five hundred miles to go.
I'm just waiting for that train whistle to blow.
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