Song of the Sockeye - Canadian Song feat. Michael Burnyeat

Special thanks to Captain Ryan of Deep Coast Charters for showing us the fishing reality of Vancouver area, and allowing us to use the footage. aif you're ever in the Vancouver area, check them out: https://deepcoastcharters.ca Fiddle by Michael Burnyeat, vocals by Farya Faraji. This is a folk song from British Columbia, Canada's west coast, Pacific Ocean-facing province which I visited in early July. It's one of those songs that aren't simply a pre-existing Irish or Scottish pre-existing ones, but that arose within Canada. The history behind this song becomes even more fascinating with this fact: this was a poem written down by an unknown person. The poem was found as a paper underneath a glass-covered notice board at the deserted Wadhams Cannery, on Rivers Inlet. Eventually, they were put to music by Phil Thomas, a Canadian folk singer and songwriter. Lyrics: Oh, hark to the song of the sockeye Like a siren’s call of old When it gets in your blood you can’t shake it It’s the same as the fever for gold There’s a hole in the BC coastline River’s Inlet’s the place I mean And it’s there you will find the old-timer And also the fellow who’s green Oh, the boats head for there like the sockeye And some are a joy to the eye While others are simply abortions And ought to be left high and dry Now, they go to the different canneries And before they can make one haul It’s three hundred bucks for net, grub and gas Which they hope to pay off before fall Then it’s off to the head of the inlet At six o’clock, Sunday night But when morning comes and you’ve got about three The prospects don’t look very bright Of course, there is always an alibi To account for a very poor run The weather is wrong, the moon’s not full Or the big tides will help the fish come Along about dusk, when you're starting to doze And think you've got a good night's set An engine will roar as you look out the door And some farmer toes into your net. Now some of us think of the future While others have things to forget But most of us sit here and think of a school Of sockeye hitting the net And when the season is over And you figure out what you have made You were better off working for wages No matter how low you were paid For the comforts of home are worth something, So take it from me, my friend, Frying pan grub and no headroom Will ruin your health in the end. So hark to the song of the sockeye Like a siren’s song of old When it gets in your blood you can’t shake it It’s the same as the fever for gold