When someone died on the Island, a casket would be brought over from the mainland. There was no undertaker so the body would be ‘done up” by family or friends, and waked in the parlour. I recall that large pennies would have to be put on the eyes to keep them closed. All women were sent to the grave wearing white gloves. The people l remember who died on the Island in my time were Dan John MacCormack, who is buried in St. Georges and my uncle Nathan Allen who was buried in Georgetown. Nathan died in the early spring of 1939 when the ice was too soft for the horse and hearse wagon, so the casket was put on a wood sleigh and pushed over by hand. My Grandmother, Fanny Allen, died in 1937 and is buried in Annandale. She died in May during fishing time and her funeral was by boat. I later wrote this song about my Grandmother’s funeral.

Now friends if you listen I’ll tell you a song

About Boughton Island the place I was born Surrounded by water as you see by the name

Where one’s heart sometimes longs to go back again

We lived in the center, yet close to the shore

Just open the window to hear the surf roar

As kids few in numbers we had lots of fun

And the old folks joined in when their day‘s work was done

Away from the rat-race we never knew crime

There were things we were short of but one was not time We had time for pleasure, we found time for fun

And always the time when the work must be done

To the oldest one born there I cannot go back But the oldest still with us we call him Joe Mac Joe left the Island for the first Great World War While Islanders hearts were left heavy and sore

But after four years of warfare and strain

Joe returned to the Island again

Now living in Cardigan some 90 years young

He‘s the one left to say how this song should be sung

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