Ye noble Newfoundlanders
that suffered in the gale,
I hope you'll pay attention
and listen to my tale;
It is a tale of pity,
a tale I have to tell,
Concerning of a fearful loss
in a craft called the Excel.
On the eighth day of October
when everything was gay,
We hoisted our flag up to the mast
all for to go away;
Before that we were ready
a gale came on to blow,
And with it hove a heavy swell
and also showers of snow.
We quickly then got ready
our vessel to secure,
We worked away all that long day
'til we could do no more;
To watch our lines and keep them
served the night until 'twas day -
'Twould be better if our lines had parted,
we might have run to sea.
We trusted to God's mercy,
who always answered prayer,
He showed us the way to save ourselves,
likewise our little gear;
'Twas true we did not follow Him,
but trusted our own fate -
And left us here cold mourners,
our sorrow to relate.
We worked all that long summer,
and hard both day and night,
To earn bread for our children
and that with all our might;
Now some of them are sleeping
beneath the briny wave -
Some more of them are buried
down in Black Island graves.
Being on a Sunday morning
when the wind did roar and rage,
There was twenty-two of the Excel crew
met with a watery grave;
There was men, women, and children
stood on her quarter-deck,
When a heavy sea broke over her
and swept them from the wreck.
There was one man in our number,
his locks were turning grey,
He stood apart from all the rest
his thoughts so far away;
On the rugged shore of the Labrador
where this cruel deed was done,
In a place called the Black Island,
outside of Grady's Run.
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