Jim Jones aka The Fisher Who Died In His Bed


Traditional Newfoundland

        Traditional song from Newfoundland, learned from various sources over the years,
with recent memory-help from Dick Swain of Belfast. I picture this as a conversation between
a few fishermen in a trap-house/bait-shack (with snow flying outside, of course) talking about
their old friend, his skills and exploits, and his good fortune to die at home in the comfort
of family and friends, rather than under some indifferent gray wave, alone.


Some particular words:

Banker: One who has fished the shoals of the continental shelf from Newfoundland west to New England

Salter: One who preserved fish by salting then. (A salt banker was a schooner that carried salt

around to preserve fish caught on the banks).

Trawler: In this case, one who has fished with hooks by setting a single line with hooks near the bottom.

Sods: Short lines with baited hooks that hang from the main trawl (or ground) line. Called snoods in
Nova Scotia and gangions in western areas of Maine.

Bobber: Buoy

Dogfish: Small sand shark

Trapper: Here, I think they're speaking of movable net traps rather than lobstering gear.

Leader: A strong straight net leading fish to a trap's entrance.

Oh, Jim Jones, the fisher, the trapper, the trawler
Oh, Jim Jones, the fish-killing banker is dead
No fisherman surely set foot in a dory
Like Jim Jones, the fisher, who died in his bed

Was there any old fisher tied sods or made barbers
Or set out his trawls in the dark, it is said
No fisherman ever braved such stormy weather
As Jim Jones, the fisher, who died in his bed

In the foggiest of weather he'd set out the leader
And who in the devil this side of the head
Could haul up the codfish and pick out the dogfish
Like Jim Jones, our skipper, who died in his bed

There never was a salter this side of the water
There never was such a glutton for eating cod's head
There never was a cracky who could chew tobacco
Like Jim Jones, our skipper, who died in his bed

Was there any old fisher or any old fellow
Cut throats or split fish or could tear off the head
I'm damned if I ever saw one could pick liver
Like Jim Jones, our skipper, who died in his bed

Jim Jones, he would surely go out in his dory
And set out his traps all weighted with lead
No fisher from Sidon hauled traps with such tied on
Like Jim Jones, our skipper, who died in his bed

Was there any old fellow this side of the harbour
Sailed straight down the channel and tacked round the head
It would make you all frantic to sail the Atlantic
With old Skipper Jones, who died in his bed

His traps are unmended, his fishing days ended
His trawls are all rotten, his fishing boats sunk
His days as a rover are finished and over
Old Jim Jones, our skipper, who died in his bunk


From Windcalling