We have a fisherman's meeting.
Over in our little plant.
Boy's if we don't put down our foot.
No need for another "grant".

The foremen says,"Come on now boys"
We can't let that go on.
We'll go and send a message.
To the biggest of the pawns.

We'll ask him for assistance.
If the cod it doesn't land.
We just have to get out of here.
And go to Newfoundland.

But we folks didn't get a chance.
To go and get our catch.
John Crosbie said, "Moratorium".
And our Cheques we had to fetch.

And then we had to scatter.
Like a crowd of frightened sheep.
From the grimy sidewalks.
To the briny oceans deep.

We have all gone our separate ways.
We do the best we can.
In the crab plants of our "Labrador
And the mines of Newfoundland.

The Labrador Fishery will be no more.
We never will turn back.
We can blame it all on government.
Now who's the biggest quack?

We must all try and settle.
Though we move around and round.
It all boils down to one good thing.
You can't keep a good man down.

Now to conclude and finish.
I've one thing more to say.
We should all go back to "Henley".
For a reunion some sweet day.