Free Baltimore's Mansion by Wayne Johnston Page B

good many heads were broken.” The cause of the brawl was their failure to agree on which group had hauled the bigger pile of wood.
    Peace between the natives and the Bush-borns was brought about by the archbishop who advised the two groups to join the Pink and Green together to form one flag, half pink, half green. They could not quite bring themselves to do that, but instead inserted a bolt of neutral white between the two colours.
    As Harold did not know the music, he could only recite “Fling Out the Flag” as a poem. Glass in one hand, cigar in the other, face flushed, he launched into it without warning, and all conversation stopped.
    â€œThe Pink, the Rose of England shows,
The Green St. Patrick’s emblem, bright,
While in between, the spotless sheen
Of St. Andrew’s Cross displays the white.
Then hail the pink, the white, the green.
Our patriot flag long may it stand.
Our sirelands twine, their emblems trine,
To form the flag of Newfoundland!
Fling out the flag, o’er creek and cragg,
Pink, white and green, so fair, so grand.
Long may it sway o’er bight and bay,
Around the shores of Newfoundland!
Whate’er betide our ‘Ocean Bride’
That nestles ’midst Atlantic’s foam,
Still far and wide, we’ll raise with pride
Our native flag, o’er hearth and home.
Should e’er the hand of fate demand
Some future change in our career,
We ne’er will yield, on flood or field
The Flag we honour and revere!
Fling out the flag o’er creek and cragg,
Pink, white and green, so fair, so grand.
Long may it sway o’er bight and bay,
Around the shores of Newfoundland.”
    â€œFling Out the Flag” was greeted with applause, which had not died down when Harold launched into “The Lament for Newfoundland,” published in the St. John’s
Daily News
on April 1, 1949. Teary-eyed before he even started, he declaimed:
    â€œOn this day of parting, sad nostalgic thoughts arise,
    Thoughts to bring the hot tears surging to the Newfoundlanders eyes,
    Thoughts that bring to mind the story of the struggles of the past,
    Of the men who built our island, nailed its colours to our mast.
    Those who lost the fight for freedom have the greater pride this day,
    Though their country’s independence lies the victim of the fray.
    They have kept THEIR faith untarnished, they have left THEIR honour high,
    They can face the course of history with a clear and steadfast eye.”
    By the time Harold was finished, tears were streaming down his face. Likewise the rest of them, my father, Uncle Jim, my mother, Aunt Eva, Marg, all enjoying themselves immensely, it seemed to me.
    â€œWell spoken, Harold, my son,” my father said, his tone more consoling than laudatory. Uncle Dennis cried but was consoled by no one but his wife.
    Then we sang “The Ode to Newfoundland,” which most Catholics, in spite of their affection for “Fling Out the Flag,” were quite fond of, for the only mention in it of religion was a non-denominational God.
    â€œWe’ll have ‘The Ode’ now, Harold, if you please,” my father said. Harold sat at the piano, and while he played, we sang.
    â€œâ€˜As loved our fathers, so we love/Where once they stood we stand.’”
    Next came a toast to Charlie and Nan, proposed by Harold. “To Charlie and Nan,” they said.
    My father raised his glass but did not drink. A few minutes later he put down his glass, slipped away from the party and went out to the back porch, closing the door behind him. I thought no one else had noticed until Uncle Harold, as if in mimicry of my father, took the same path through the guests as he had and went out to the porch. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw them go down the steps and walk halfway across the yard.
    I went out to the porch, eased open the storm door. I watched them from behind a wooden column on the steps. Myfather leaned over, his hands on his thighs as if