Back in the past a young man had a dream
Of a house he would build when only sixteen
On a chosen site there by the strand,
Looking over the sea on his father's land
And that dream to fruition soon came to be,
On that peaceful spot there by the sea,
And there stood a house sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows looking over it all.

The old country store stood there close by,
Its gable roof pointing up to the sky,
Where song birds perched on a summer's morn,
Announcing to all that a new day was born,
And the folks of the village came there to buy
Their groceries and dry goods, their need to supply.
Oft times, old men, would gather there,
In all kinds of weather, foul and fair,
And spin yarns of the past, how things used to be,
And of the storms they had fought on an angry sea.
Money was scarce and not much to spend,
But one item they always bought with a grin,
Their "plug of baccy" they never forgot,
With the trade name BEAVER stamped in its top,
And then with a smile, their wives to appease,
Came a few sweet biscuits and a pound of cheese.
No modern gadgets were there to be seen,
Just a simple bill pad and a weighing machine,
And the shelves were all stocked, tidy and neat,
While a pot-bellied stove gave off its heat,
And the old house stood there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows looking over it all.

When the full moon shone down on a summer's night,
Flooding the place with her silvery light,
The youth of the village would gather there,
To form a square dance on the big wooden pier.
Accordion music then could be heard,
Replacing the song of the sweet morning bird,
And the young people danced and kicked up their heels,
To the old-time music of the jigs and the reels,
And the old house stood there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining white windows looking over it all.

On winter days when the frost came down,
And there were ice and snow all around,
The snowy path would pass that way,
Where people travelled, both night and day.
Newfoundland ponies would ply that road,
Plodding along with their heavy load,
Their iron-shod hooves gripping into the snow,
And their harness bells ringing, soft and low.
For their harness bells seemed to sense their mood,
Along that snow path, rugged and crude,
For their tempo quickened to a faster clip,
As the load was pulled up Wicks' nip.
Willing workers were these ponies all,
Always heeding their masters' call,
Their only rewards at the close of the day,
Were a long cold drink and a sack of hay
And a rustic stable wherein to stay,
And the old house stood there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows looking over it all.

Then, one day, came a change in the air,
And a west wind blew, fresh and clear,
And ice and snow soon did melt away,
At the dawning of a warm spring day.
Fishermen gathered down by the shore,
To prepare for a fishing season once more,
It was then the vessels were brought up by the pier
And tied up there, with skill and with care,
And the call went out to all around,
To gather there, for to "heave her down."
Her bottom then was cleaned of seaweed,
A chore to be done and a springtime need,
And borne on the breeze, both near and far,
Were the pungent smells of "Starcopper" and tar.
The topsides were painted in shining black,
And rigging was tightened that had worn slack,
And the long yellow streak from transom to stem,
An elegant touch to their hulls did lend,
While the carved work around the iron hawse-pipe,
Was painted in yellow, artistic and bright,
And the name on the bow, by which they were known,
Gave them a character all their own,
And they swung on their anchors, at high tide and low,
In that peaceful channel that the hills do enfold,
Their skippers awaiting that favorable day,
When their sails would be hoisted and they would sail away,
And the old house stood there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows looking over it all.

Time brings change, as time always do,
And old things fade like the morning dew,
And the old country store was moved away,
And the site where it stood is vacant today.
The big wooden pier, down by the shore,
Is gone from the rocks and is seen there no more,
And on a warm moonlit night, that rhythmic beat,
Is heard no more of dancing feet,
And an old folk song, played soft and low,
Has now been replaced with rock and roll.
The winter's path that passed that way,
Has taken a different course today,
And sleigh bells heard on a winter's morn,
Has now been replaced by a vehicle's horn.
Still the old house stands there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows looking over it all.

The graceful vessels, once tied up there,
Have also been gone for many a year,
And are spoken of now in low sad tones,
For they all have been claimed by Davy Jones.
The channel there, once a waterway,
Seems cold and forlorn all through the day.
A century and more, has rolled around,
Since the old house's foundation was first put down,
And looking back on days gone by,
Brings a warmth to the heart and a tear to the eye,
Many things once there are now long gone,
And are only remembered in poem and song.
Still the old house stands there, sturdy and tall,
Its shining windows have seen it all.

Gerald W. Starkes   Submitted By: NULL