Trudging along towards the town he seldom spoke a word
to the scattered few he met along gthe crunching, gravel way.
A tiny casket, of new worked wood, lay nestled ‘neath his arm;
his last respects for a grandchild who’d died the previous day.

Up to towering Signal Hill came Oliver O’Brien,
a man of solemn demeanor in this sad and fateful mode
Then climbing up the worn old hill, toward the ancient guns,
he found the street he was searching for; old Top Battery Road.

Peeping out through window panes, gone frosty from the cold,
little faces saw him come and opened wide the door,
then wondering what surprise he’s made to give for their delight
they came in askance to him, but saw his heart was sore.

Remembrance came in that short time, of Patrick who had died.
His tiny body never felt the joy they all knew
of warmth and pleasure that was theirs within their little home,
for he had died a’borning, the way some babies do.

So Oliver had used his tools; his hammer, saw and planes,
and made a tiny coffin to fit a tiny grave.
And now the thing was finished and brought in from ‘down Torbay,’
to lay the baby in the ground, with hopes his soul was saved.


The photo is of Oliver and Mary O’Brien. Taken in Tobay, NL, around 1940   Submitted By: NULL