Post by Administrator on Aug 24, 2017 13:18:20 GMT
TRAWLERMEN
I’d like to speak of Trawler men that search the cruel seas,
Hunting for the fishes that dart off where they please,
To shoot the nets and haul `em in, toiling day and night,
Risking limbs and humour in oceans breaking white.
Skipper in the wheelhouse unshaven in his chair,
Wedged in with his coffee and chatting on the air,
Tending to his mission and watching out for ships,
Gulls are wheeling all about squabling for the bits.
Wet and water everywhere faces chapped and red,
Rolling and a pitching with spraying overhead,
Little change of clothing and soaking all the time,
Living in their oilskins amid the salty grime.
The gutting of the cargo and chipping of the ice,
Lacking sleep, uncomfortable, no lubber’s paradise,
Yearning for a dry bunk and warming bit of supper,
While freezing in the wind or rolling in the scupper.
Loud and noisy engines, pervading oily smell,
Dining on the `prime` they caught, every day as well,
Snagging of the gear then mending is a chore,
Still our island fishermen return again for more.
Whether in the Arctic or another scene,
Maybe out of Brixham, Hull or Aberdeen,
In wind and snow they sally forth into frequent squalls,
Accepting all conditions shooting out the trawls.
The nature of the job means uncertain pay,
Depending on the `fixer` and prices on the day,
A good catch shows a bonus when hauling safe and sound,
Thinking of a pint or two now they're homeward bound.
Hardy crews venture out to areas so vast,
Flying our red ensign whipping from the mast,
When you buy a bit of fish wherever it is sold,
Spare a thought for Trawlermen working in the cold.
Joe Earl.
I’d like to speak of Trawler men that search the cruel seas,
Hunting for the fishes that dart off where they please,
To shoot the nets and haul `em in, toiling day and night,
Risking limbs and humour in oceans breaking white.
Skipper in the wheelhouse unshaven in his chair,
Wedged in with his coffee and chatting on the air,
Tending to his mission and watching out for ships,
Gulls are wheeling all about squabling for the bits.
Wet and water everywhere faces chapped and red,
Rolling and a pitching with spraying overhead,
Little change of clothing and soaking all the time,
Living in their oilskins amid the salty grime.
The gutting of the cargo and chipping of the ice,
Lacking sleep, uncomfortable, no lubber’s paradise,
Yearning for a dry bunk and warming bit of supper,
While freezing in the wind or rolling in the scupper.
Loud and noisy engines, pervading oily smell,
Dining on the `prime` they caught, every day as well,
Snagging of the gear then mending is a chore,
Still our island fishermen return again for more.
Whether in the Arctic or another scene,
Maybe out of Brixham, Hull or Aberdeen,
In wind and snow they sally forth into frequent squalls,
Accepting all conditions shooting out the trawls.
The nature of the job means uncertain pay,
Depending on the `fixer` and prices on the day,
A good catch shows a bonus when hauling safe and sound,
Thinking of a pint or two now they're homeward bound.
Hardy crews venture out to areas so vast,
Flying our red ensign whipping from the mast,
When you buy a bit of fish wherever it is sold,
Spare a thought for Trawlermen working in the cold.
Joe Earl.
it's great