(by Harry Robertson)

How the Winter blizzards blow, 
  when the Whaling Fleet's at rest,
Tucked in Leith Harbour's sheltered bay, 
  safely anchored ten abreast,
The whalers at the station, 
  as from ship to ship they rove,
Carry little bags of coal with them, 
  and a little iron stove.

	In the wee dark engine room, 
	  where the chill seeps in your soul,
	How we huddled roon' that Wee Pot Stove, 
	  that burned oily rags and coal.

Fireman Paddy worked wi' me, 
  on the engines stiff and cauld,
A stranger to the truth was he, 
  there's not a lie he hasn't told,
He boasted of his goldmines, 
  and of hearts that he had won,
And his bawdy sense of humour shone, 
  just like a ray of sun.

	In the wee dark engine room ...
We laboured seven days a week, 
  with cauld hands and frozen feet,
Bitter days and lonely nights, 
  making grog and having fights,
Salt fish and whale meat sausage, 
  fresh penguin eggs a treat,
And we trudged along to work each day, 
  through icy winds and sleet.

	In the wee dark engine room ...
Then one day we saw the sun, 
  and the Factory Ship's return,
Meet your old friends, sing a song, 
  hope the season won't be long.
Then homeward bound when it's over, 
  and we'll leave this icy cove,
But I always will remember, 
  that little iron stove.

	In the wee dark engine room ...

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