Oh the word came down from Ottawa, A blow to every bay, “The cod are gone, the boats are tied, No haulin’ nets today.” And poor old Walter sat there still, His apron on his knee, Forty years o’ sniffin’ fish Was gone like foam at sea.

So raise your mugs and stomp the floor, For Walter on the wharf once more, He’d sniff a cod from half a mile, And tell you if it’s fresh or vile. But now the Plant is cold and still, No fish to grade, no time to kill, So sing for Walter, bless his soul— The man who sniffed the cod for gold.

He’d lift a fillet to his nose, And close one weathered eye, “Too long on the Grand Banks” he’d say, Or “Fresh as July sky.” He knew the scent of every catch, From Burin’s run, To Catalina’s finest silver sides Still dripping from the sun.

So raise your mugs and stomp the floor, For Walter on the wharf once more, He’d sniff a cod from half a mile, And tell you if it’s fresh or vile. But now the Plant is cold and still, No fish to grade, no time to kill, So sing for Walter, bless his soul— The man who sniffed the cod for gold.

“Lord jumpin’, boys,” he muttered low, “Me nose is out o’ work. Forty years o’ sniffin’ strong, Now I’m just a fishless clerk.” But the kitchen roared with laughter then, And someone passed the brew— “For every cod you ever sniffed, We’ll sniff a toast for you!”

So he took his place beside the fire, Accordion hummin’ sweet, And tapped along the plankboard floor With tired but steady feet. And though the boats lay silent now, And nets hung limp and dry, Walter’s laugh still filled the room Like gulls across the sky.

So raise your mugs and stomp the floor, For Walter on the wharf once more, He’d sniff a cod from half a mile, And tell you if it’s fresh or vile. Though times have changed from bay to bay, We’ll sing his name the Newfie way— For Walter’s nose, forever bold, The man who sniffed the cod for gold.