DE place I get born, me, is up on de reever

  Near foot of de rapide dat’s call Cheval Blanc

Beeg mountain behin’ it, so high you can’t climb it

  An’ whole place she’s mebbe two honder arpent.

De fader of me, he was habitant farmer,

  Ma gran’fader too, an’ hees fader also,

Dey don’t mak’ no monee, but dat isn’t fonny

  For it’s not easy get ev’ryt’ing, you mus’ know—

All de sam’ dere is somet’ing dey got ev’ryboddy,

  Dat’s plaintee good healt’, wat de monee can’t geev,

So I’m workin’ away dere, an’ happy for stay dere

  On farm by de reever, so long I was leev.

O! dat was de place w’en de spring tam she’s comin’,

  W’en snow go away, an’ de sky is all blue—

W’en ice lef’ de water, an’ sun is get hotter

  An’ back on de medder is sing de gouglou—

W’en small sheep is firs’ comin’ out on de pasture,

  Deir nice leetle tail stickin’ up on deir back,

Dey ronne wit’ deir moder, an’ play wit’ each oder

  An’ jomp all de tam jus’ de sam’ dey was crack—

An’ ole cow also, she’s glad winter is over,

  So she kick herse’f up, an’ start off on de race

Wit’ de two-year-ole heifer, dat’s purty soon lef’ her,

  W’y ev’ryt’ing’s crazee all over de place!

An’ down on de reever de wil’ duck is quackin’

  Along by de shore leetle san’ piper ronne—

De bullfrog he’s gr-rompin’ an’ doré is jompin’

  Dey all got deir own way for mak’ it de fonne.

But spring’s in beeg hurry, an’ don’t stay long wit us

  An’ firs’ t’ing we know, she go off till nex’ year,

Den bee commence hummin’, for summer is comin’

  An’ purty soon corn’s gettin’ ripe on de ear.

Dat’s very nice tam for wake up on de morning

  An’ lissen de rossignol sing ev’ry place,

Feel sout’ win’ a-blowin’, see clover a-growin’,

  An’ all de worl’ laughin’ itself on de face.

Mos’ ev’ry day raf’ it is pass on de rapide

  De voyageurs singin’ some ole chanson

’Bout girl down de reever—too bad dey mus’ leave her,

But comin’ back soon’ wit’ beaucoup d’argent.

An’ den w’en de fall an’ de winter come roun us

  An’ bird of de summer is all fly away,

W’en mebbe she’s snowin’ an’ nort’ win’ is blowin’

An’ night is mos’ t’ree tam so long as de day.

You t’ink it was bodder de habitant farmer?

  Not at all—he is happy an’ feel satisfy,

An’ cole may las’ good w’ile, so long as de woodpile

  Is ready for burn on de stove by an’ bye.

W’en I got plaintee hay put away on de stable

  So de sheep an’ de cow, dey got no chance to freeze,

An’ de hen all togedder—I don’t min’ de wedder—

  De nort’ win’ may blow jus’ so moche as she please.

An’ some cole winter night how I wish you can see us,

  W’en I smoke on de pipe, an’ de ole woman sew

By de stove of T’ree Reever—ma wife’s fader geev her

  On day we get marry, dat’s long tam ago—

De boy an’ de girl, dey was readin’ its lesson,

  De cat on de corner she’s bite heem de pup,

Ole “Carleau” he’s snorin’ an’ beeg stove is roarin’

  So loud dat I’m scare purty soon she bus’ up.

Philomene—dat’s de oldes’—is sit on de winder

  An’ kip jus’ so quiet lak wan leetle mouse,

She say de more finer moon never was shiner—

  Very fonny, for moon isn’t dat side de house.

But purty soon den, we hear foot on de outside,

  An’ some wan is place it hees han’ on de latch,

Dat’s Isidore Goulay, las’ fall on de Brulé

  He’s tak’ it firs’ prize on de grand ploughin’ match.

Ha! ha! Philomene!—dat was smart trick you play us

  Come help de young feller tak’ snow from hees neck,

Dere’s not’ing for hinder you come off de winder

  W’en moon you was look for is come, I expec’—

Isidore, he is tole us de news on de parish

  ’Bout hees Lajeunesse Colt—travel two forty, sure,

’Bout Jeremie Choquette, come back from Woonsocket

  An’ t’ree new leetle twin on Madame Vail lancour’.

But nine o’clock strike, an’ de chil’ren is sleepy,

  Mese’f an’ ole woman can’t stay up no more

So alone by de fire—’cos dey say dey ain’t tire—

  We lef’ Philomene an’ de young Isidore.

I s’pose dey be talkin’ beeg lot on de kitchen

  ’Bout all de nice moon dey was see on de sky,

For Philomene’s takin’ long tam get awaken

  Nex’ day, she’s so sleepy on bote of de eye.

Dat’s wan of dem ting’s, ev’ry tam on de fashion,

  An’ ’bout nices’ t’ing dat was never be seen.

Got not’ing for say me—I spark it sam’ way me

  W’en I go see de moder ma girl Philomene.

We leev very quiet ’way back on de contree

  Don’t put on sam style lak de big village,

W’en we don’t get de monee you t’ink dat is fonny

  An’ mak’ plaintee sport on de Bottes Sauvages.

But I tole you—dat’s true—I don’t go on de city

  If you geev de fine house an’ beaucoup d’argent—

I rader be stay me, an’ spen’ de las’ day me

  On farm by de rapide dat’s call Cheval Blanc.

ON wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,

  De win’ she blow, blow, blow,

An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”

  Got scar’t an’ run below—

For de win’ she blow lak hurricane

  Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow bus’ up on Lac St. Pierre

  Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,

  An’ walk de hin’ deck too—

He call de crew from up de hole

  He call de cook also.

De cook she’s name was Rosie,

  She come from Montreal,

Was chambre maid on lumber barge,

  On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win’ she blow from nor’-eas’-wes’,—

  De sout’ win’ she blow too,

W’en Rosie cry “Mon cher captinne,

  Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”

Den de Captinne t’row de big ankerre,

  But still the scow she dreef,

De crew he can’t pass on de shore,

  Becos’ he los’ hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,

  De wave run high an’ fas’,

W’en de captinne tak’ de Rosie girl

  An’ tie her to de mas’.

Den he also tak’ de life preserve,

  An’ jomp off on de lak’,

An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,

  I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very early

  ’Bout ha’f-pas’ two—t’ree—four—

De captinne—scow—an’ de poor Rosie

  Was corpses on de shore,

For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricane

  Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow bus’ up on Lac St. Pierre,

  Wan arpent from de shore.

Now all good wood scow sailor man

  Tak’ warning by dat storm

An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl

  An’ leev on wan beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak’ hurricane

  An’ s’pose she blow some more,

You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre

  So long you stay on shore.

VENEZ ici, mon cher ami, an’ sit down by me—so

An’ I will tole you story of old tam long ago—

W’en ev’ryt’ing is happy—w’en all de bird is sing

An’ me!—I’m young an’ strong lak moose an’ not afraid no t’ing.

I close my eye jus’ so, an’ see de place w’ere I am born—

I close my ear an’ lissen to musique of de horn,

Dat’s horn ma dear ole moder blow—an only t’ing she play

Is “viens donc vite Napoléon—’peche toi pour votre souper.”—

An’ w’en he’s hear dat nice musique—ma leetle dog “Carleau”

Is place hees tail upon hees back—an’ den he’s let heem go—

He’s jomp on fence—he’s swimmin’ crik—he’s ronne two forty gait,

He say “dat’s somet’ing good for eat—Carleau mus’ not be late.”

O dem was pleasure day for sure, dem day of long ago

W’en I was play wit’ all de boy, an’ all de girl also;

An’ many tam w’en I’m alone an’ t’ink of day gone by

An’ pull latire an’ spark de girl, I cry upon my eye.

Ma fader an’ ma moder too, got nice, nice familee,

Dat’s ten garçon an’ t’orteen girl, was mak’ it twenty t’ree

But fonny t’ing de Gouvernement don’t geev de firs’ prize den

Lak w’at dey say dey geev it now, for only wan douzaine.

De English peep dat only got wan familee small size

Mus’ be feel glad dat tam dere is no honder acre prize

For fader of twelve chil’ren—dey know dat mus’ be so,

De Canayens would boss Kebeck—mebbe Ontario.

But dat is not de story dat I was gone tole you

About de fun we use to have w’en we leev a chez nous

We’re never lonesome on dat house, for many cavalier

Come at our place mos’ every night—especially Sun-day.

But tam I ’member bes’ is w’en I’m twenty-wan year—me—

An’ so for mak’ some pleasurement—we geev wan large soirée

De whole paroisse she be invite—de Curé he’s come too—

Wit plaintee peep from ’noder place—dat’s more I can tole you.

De night she’s cole an’ freeze also, chemin she’s fill wit snow

An’ on de chimley lak phantome, de win’ is mak’ it blow—

But boy an’ girl come all de sam an’ pass on grande parloir

For warm itself on beeg box stove, was mak’ on Trois Rivières—

An’ w’en Bonhomme Latour commence for tune up hees fidelle

It mak’ us all feel very glad—l’enfant! he play so well,

Musique suppose to be firs’ class, I offen hear, for sure

But mos’ bes’ man, beat all de res’, is ole Bateese Latour—

An’ w’en Bateese play Irish jeeg, he’s learn on Mattawa

Dat tam he’s head boss cook Shaintee—den leetle Joe Leblanc

Tak’ hole de beeg Marie Juneau an’ dance upon de floor

Till Marie say “Excuse to me, I cannot dance no more.”—

An’ den de Curé’s mak’ de speech—ole Curé Ladouceur!

He say de girl was spark de boy too much on some cornerre—

An’ so he’s tole Bateese play up ole fashion reel a quatre

An’ every body she mus’ dance, dey can’t get off on dat.

Away she go—hooraw! hooraw! plus fort Bateese, mon vieux

Camille Bisson, please watch your girl—dat’s bes’ t’ing you can do.

Pass on de right an’ tak’ your place Mamzelle Des Trois Maisons

You’re s’pose for dance on Paul Laberge, not Telesphore Gagnon.

Mon oncle Al-fred, he spik lak’ dat—’cos he is boss de floor,

An’ so we do our possibill an’ den commence encore.

Dem crowd of boy an’ girl I’m sure keep up until nex’ day

If ole Bateese don’t stop heseff, he come so fatigué.

An’ affer dat, we eat some t’ing, tak’ leetle drink also

An’ de Curé, he’s tole story of many year ago—

W’en Iroquois sauvage she’s keel de Canayens an’ steal deir hair,

An’ say dat’s only for Bon Dieu, we don’t behere—he don’t be dere.

But dat was mak’ de girl feel scare—so all de cavalier

Was ax hees girl go home right off, an’ place her on de sleigh,

An’ w’en dey start, de Curé say, “Bonsoir et bon voyage

Menagez-vous—tak’ care for you—prenez garde pour les sauvages.”

An’ den I go meseff also, an’ tak’ ma belle Elmire—

She’s nicer girl on whole Comté, an’ jus’ got eighteen year—

Black hair—black eye, an’ chick rosée dat’s lak wan fameuse on de fall

But don’t spik much—not of dat kin’, I can’t say she love me at all.

Ma girl—she’s fader beeg farmeur—leev ’noder side St. Flore

Got five-six honder acre—mebbe a leetle more—

Nice sugar bush—une belle maison—de bes’ I never see—

So w’en I go for spark Elmire, I don’t be mak’ de foolish me—

Elmire!—she’s pass t’ree year on school—Ste. Anne de la Perade

An’ w’en she’s tak’ de firs’ class prize, dat’s mak’ de ole man glad;

He say “Ba gosh—ma girl can wash—can keep de kitchen clean

Den change her dress—mak’ politesse before God save de Queen.”

Dey’s many way for spark de girl, an’ you know dat of course,

Some way dey might be better way, an’ some dey might be worse

But I lak’ sit some cole night wit’ my girl on ole burleau

Wit’ lot of hay keep our foot warm—an’ plaintee buffalo—

Dat’s geev good chances get acquaint—an’ if burleau upset

An’ t’row you out upon de snow—dat’s better chances yet—

An’ if you help de girl go home, if horse he ronne away

De girl she’s not much use at all—don’t geev you nice baiser!

Dat’s very well for fun ma frien’, but w’en you spark for keep

She’s not sam t’ing an’ mak’ you feel so scare lak’ leetle sheep

Some tam you get de fever—some tam you’re lak snowball

An’ all de tam you ack lak’ fou—can’t spik no t’ing at all.

Wall! dat’s de way I feel meseff, wit Elmire on burleau,

Jus’ lak’ small dog try ketch hees tail—roun’ roun’ ma head she go

But bimeby I come more brave—an’ tak’ Elmire she’s han’

“Laisse-moi tranquille” Elmire she say “You mus’ be crazy man.”

“Yass—yass” I say “mebbe you t’ink I’m wan beeg loup garou,

Dat’s forty t’ousand ’noder girl, I lef’ dem all for you,

I s’pose you know Polique Gauthier your frien’ on St. Cesaire

I ax her marry me nex’ wick—she tak’ me—I don’t care.”

Ba gosh; Elmire she don’t lak’ dat—it mak’ her feel so mad—

She commence cry, say “ ’Poleon you treat me very bad—

I don’t lak’ see you t’row you’seff upon Polique Gauthier,

So if you say you love me sure—we mak’ de marieé.”—

Oh it was fine tam affer dat—Castor I t’ink he know,

We’re not too busy for get home—he go so nice an’ slow,

He’s only upset t’ree—four tam—an’ jus’ about daylight

We pass upon de ole man’s place—an’ every t’ing’s all right.

Wall! we leev happy on de farm for nearly fifty year,

Till wan day on de summer tam—she die—ma belle Elmire

I feel so lonesome lef’ behin’—I tink ’twas bes’ mebbe—

Dat w’en le Bon Dieu tak’ ma famme—he should not forget me.

But dat is hees biz-nesse ma frien’—I know dat’s all right dere

I’ll wait till he call “ ’Poleon” den I will be prepare—

An’ w’en he fin’ me ready, for mak’ de longue voyage

He guide me t’roo de wood hesef upon ma las’ portage.

‘BON jour, M’sieu’—you want to know

 ’Bout dat ole gun—w’at good she’s for?

W’y! Jean Bateese Bruneau—mon père,

  Fight wit’ dat gun on Pap’neau War!

Long tam since den you say—C’est vrai,

  An’ me too young for ’member well,

But how de patriot fight an’ die,

  I offen hear de ole folk tell

De English don’t ack square dat tam,

  Don’t geev de habitants no show,

So ’long come Wolfred Nelson

  Wit’ Louis Joseph Papineau.

An’ swear de peep mus’ have deir right.

  Wolfred he’s write Victoriaw,

But she’s no good, so den de war

  Commence among de habitants.

Mon père he leev to Grande Brulé.

  So smarter man you never see,

Was alway on de grande hooraw!

  Plaintee w’at you call “Esprit!”

An’ w’en dey form wan compagnie

  All dress wit’ tuque an’ ceinture sash

Ma fader tak’ hees gun wit’ heem

  An’ marche away to Saint Eustache,

W’ere many patriots was camp

  Wit’ brave Chenier, deir Capitaine,

W’en ’long come English Generale,

  An’ more two t’ousan’ sojer man.

De patriot dey go on church

  An’ feex her up deir possibill;

Dey fight deir bes’, but soon fin’ out

  “Canon de bois” no good for kill.

An’ den de church she come on fire,

  An’ burn almos’ down to de groun’,

So w’at you t’ink our man can do

  Wit’ all dem English armee roun’?

’Poleon, hees sojer never fight

  More brave as dem poor habitants,

Chenier, he try for broke de rank

  Chenier come dead immediatement.

He fall near w’ere de cross is stan’

  Upon de ole church cimitiere,

Wit’ Jean Poulin an’ Laframboise

  An’ plaintee more young feller dere.

De gun dey rattle lak’ tonnere

  Jus’ bang, bang, bang! dat’s way she go,

An’ wan by wan de brave man’s fall

  An’ red blood’s cover all de snow.

Ma fader shoot so long he can

  An’ den he’s load hees gun some more,

Jomp on de ice behin’ de church

  An’ pass heem on de ’noder shore.

Wall! he reach home fore very long

  An’ keep perdu for many day,

Till ev’ry t’ing she come tranquille,

  An’ sojer man all gone away.

An’ affer dat we get our right,

  De Canayens don’t fight no more,

Ma fader’s never shoot dat gun,

  But place her up above de door.

An’ Papineau, an’ Nelson too

  Dey’re gone long tam, but we are free,

Le Bon Dieu have ’em ’way up dere.

  Salut, Wolfred! Salut, Louis!

W’EN I was young boy on de farm, dat’s twenty year ago

I have wan frien’ he’s leev near me, call Jean Bateese Trudeau

An’ offen w’en we are alone, we lak for spik about

De tam w’en we was come beeg man, wit’ moustache on our mout’.

Bateese is get it on hees head, he’s too moche educate

For mak’ de habitant farmerre—he better go on State—

An’ so wan summer evening we’re drivin’ home de cow

He’s tole me all de whole beez-nesse—jus’ lak you hear me now.

“W’at’s use mak’ foolish on de farm? dere’s no good chances lef’

An’ all de tam you be poor man—you know dat’s true you’se’f;

We never get no fun at all—don’t never go on spree

Onless we pass on ’noder place, an’ mak’ it some monee.

“I go on Les Etats Unis, I go dere right away

An’ den mebbe on ten-twelve year, I be riche man some day,

An’ w’en I mak’ de large fortune, I come back I s’pose

Wit’ Yankee famme from off de State, an’ monee on my clothes.

“I tole you somet’ing else also—mon cher Napoleon

I get de grande majorité, for go on parliament

Den buil’ fine house on borde l’eau—near w’ere de church is stand

More finer dan de Presbytere, w’en I am come riche man!”

I say “For w’at you spik lak dat? you must be gone crazee

Dere’s plaintee feller on de State, more smarter dan you be,

Beside she’s not so healtee place, an’ if you mak’ l’argent,

You spen’ it jus’ lak Yankee man, an’ not lak habitant.

“For me Bateese! I tole you dis: I’m very satisfy—

De bes’ man don’t leev too long tam, some day Ba Gosh! he die—

An’ s’pose you got good trotter horse, an’ nice famme Canadienne

Wit’ plaintee on de house for eat—W’at more you want ma frien’?”

But Bateese have it all mak’ up, I can’t stop him at all

He’s buy de seconde classe tiquette, for go on Central Fall—

An’ wit’ two-t’ree some more de boy,—w’at t’ink de sam’ he do

Pass on de train de very nex’ wick, was lef’ Rivière du Loup.

Wall! mebbe fifteen year or more, since Bateese go away

I fin’ mesef Rivière du Loup, wan cole, cole winter day

De quick express she come hooraw! but stop de soon she can

An’ beeg swell feller jomp off car, dat’s boss by nigger man.

He’s dressim on de première classe, an’ got new suit of clothes

Wit’ long moustache dat’s stickim out, de ’noder side hees nose

Fine gol’ watch chain—nice portmanteau—an’ long, long overcoat

Wit’ beaver hat—dat’s Yankee style—an’ red tie on hees t’roat—

I say “Hello Bateese! Hello! Comment ça va mon vieux?”

He say “Excuse to me, ma frien’ I t’ink I don’t know you.”

I say, “She’s very curis t’ing, you are Bateese Trudeau,

Was raise on jus’ sam’ place wit’ me, dat’s fifteen year ago?”

He say, “Oh yass dat’s sure enough—I know you now firs’ rate,

But I forget mos’ all ma French since I go on de State.

Dere’s ’noder t’ing kip on your head, ma frien’ dey mus’ be tole

Ma name’s Bateese Trudeau no more, but John B. Waterhole!”

“Hole on de water’s” fonny name for man w’at’s call Trudeau

Ma frien’s dey all was spik lak dat, an’ I am tole heem so—

He say “Trudeau an’ Waterhole she’s jus’ about de sam’

An’ if you go for leev on State, you must have Yankee nam’.”

Den we invite heem come wit’ us, “Hotel du Canadaw”

W’ere he was treat mos’ e’ry tam, but can’t tak’ w’isky blanc,

He say dat’s leetle strong for man jus’ come off Central Fall

An’ “tabac Canayen” bedamme! he won’t smoke dat at all!—

But fancy drink lak “Collings John” de way he put it down

Was long tam since I don’t see dat—I t’ink he’s goin’ drown!—

An’ fine cigar cos’ five cent each, an’ mak’ on Trois-Rivières

L’enfant! he smoke beeg pile of dem—for monee he don’t care!—

I s’pose meseff it’s t’ree o’clock w’en we are t’roo dat night

Bateese, hees fader come for heem, an’ tak’ heem home all right

De ole man say Bateese spik French, w’en he is place on bed—

An’ say bad word—but w’en he wake—forget it on hees head—

Wall! all de winter w’en we have soirée dat’s grande affaire

Bateese Trudeau, dit Waterhole, he be de boss man dere—

You bet he have beeg tam, but w’en de spring is come encore

He’s buy de première classe tiquette for go on State some more.

You ’member w’en de hard tam come on Les Etats Unis

An’ plaintee Canayens go back for stay deir own contrée?

Wall! jus’ about dat tam again I go Rivière du Loup

For sole me two t’ree load of hay—mak’ leetle visit too—

De freight train she is jus’ arrive—only ten hour delay—

She’s never carry passengaire—dat’s w’at dey always say;—

I see poor man on char caboose—he’s got heem small valise

Begosh! I nearly tak’ de fit,—It is—it is Bateese!

He know me very well dis tam, an’ say “Bon jour, mon vieux

I hope you know Bateese Trudeau was educate wit’ you

I’m jus’ come off de State to see ma familee encore

I bus’ mesef on Central Fall—I don’t go dere no more.”

“I got no monee—not at all—I’m broke it up for sure—

Dat’s locky t’ing, Napoleon, de brakeman Joe Latour

He’s cousin of wan frien’ of me call Camille Valiquette,

Conductor too’s good Canayen—don’t ax me no tiquette.”

I tak’ Bateese wit’ me once more “Hotel du Canadaw”

An’ he was glad for get de chance drink some good w’isky blanc!

Dat’s warm heem up, an’ den he eat mos’ ev’ryt’ing he see,

I watch de w’ole beez-nesse mese’f—Monjee! he was hongree!

Madame Charette wat’s kip de place get very much excite

For see de many pork an’ bean Bateese put out of sight

Du pain doré—potate pie—an’ ’noder t’ing be dere

But w’en Bateese is get heem t’roo—dey go I don’t know w’ere.

It don’t tak’ long for tole de news “Bateese come off de State”

An’ purty soon we have beeg crowd, lak village she’s en fête

Bonhomme Maxime Trudeau hese’f, he’s comin’ wit’ de pries’

An’ pass’ heem on de “Room for eat” w’ere he is see Bateese.

Den ev’rybody feel it glad, for watch de embrasser

An’ bimeby de ole man spik “Bateese you here for stay?”

Bateese he’s cry lak beeg bebè, “Bâ j’eux rester ici.

An’ if I never see de State, I’m sure I don’t care—me.”

“Correc’,” Maxime is say right off, “I place you on de farm

For help your poor ole fader, won’t do you too moche harm

Please come wit’ me on Magasin, I feex you up—bâ oui

An’ den you’re ready for go home an’ see de familee.”

Wall! w’en de ole man an’ Bateese come off de Magasin

Bateese is los’ hees Yankee clothes—he’s dress lak Canayen

Wit’ bottes sauvages—ceinture fléché—an’ coat wit’ capuchon

An’ spik Français au naturel, de sam’ as habitant.

I see Bateese de oder day, he’s work hees fader’s place

I t’ink mese’f he’s satisfy—I see dat on hees face

He say “I got no use for State, mon cher Napoleon

Kebeck she’s good enough for me—Hooraw pour Canadaw.”

YOU can pass on de worl’ w’erever you lak,

  Tak’ de steamboat for go Angleterre,

Tak’ car on de State, an’ den you come back,

  An’ go all de place, I don’t care—

Ma frien’ dat’s a fack, I know you will say,

  W’en you come on dis contree again,

Dere’s no girl can touch, w’at we see ev’ry day,

        De nice leetle Canadienne.

Don’t matter how poor dat girl she may be,

  Her dress is so neat an’ so clean,

Mos’ ev’rywan t’ink it was mak’ on Paree

  An’ she wear it, wall! jus’ lak de Queen.

Den come for fin’ out she is mak’ it herse’f,

  For she ain’t got moche monee for spen’,

But all de sam’ tam, she was never get lef’,

        Dat nice leetle Canadienne.

W’en “un vrai Canayen” is mak’ it mariée,

  You t’ink he go leev on beeg flat

An’ bodder hese’f all de tam, night an’ day,

  Wit’ housemaid, an’ cook, an’ all dat?

Not moche, ma dear frien’, he tak’ de maison,

  Cos’ only nine dollar or ten,

W’ere he leev lak blood rooster, an’ save de l’argent,

        Wit’ hees nice leetle Canadienne.

I marry ma famme w’en I’m jus’ twenty year,

  An’ now we got fine familee,

Dat skip roun’ de place lak leetle small deer,

  No smarter crowd you never see—

An’ I t’ink as I watch dem all chasin’ about,

  Four boy an’ six girl, she mak’ ten,

Dat’s help mebbe kip it, de stock from run out

        Of de nice leetle Canadienne.

O she’s quick an’ she’s smart, an’ got plaintee heart,

  If you know correc’ way go about,

An’ if you don’t know, she soon tole you so

  Den tak’ de firs’ chance an’ get out;

But if she love you, I spik it for true,

  She will mak’ it more beautiful den,

An’ sun on de sky can’t shine lak de eye

        Of dat nice leetle Canadienne.

YOU have never hear de story of de young Napoleon Doré?

  Los’ hees life upon de reever w’en de lumber drive go down?

W’ere de rapide roar lak tonder, dat’s de place he’s goin’ onder,

  W’en he’s try save Paul Desjardins, ’Poleon hese’f is drown.

All de winter on de Shaintee, tam she’s good and work she’s plaintee,

  But we’re not feel very sorry, w’en de sun is warm hees face,

W’en de mooshrat an’ de beaver, tak’ some leetle swim on reever,

  An’ de sout’ win’ scare de snowbird, so she fly some col’er place.

Den de spring is set in steady, an’ we get de log all ready,

  Workin’ hard all day an’ night too, on de water mos’ de tam,

An’ de skeeter w’en dey fin’ us, come so quickly nearly blin’ us,

  Biz—biz—biz—biz—all aroun’ us till we feel lak sacrédam.

All de sam’ we’re hooraw feller, from de top of house to cellar,

  Ev’ry boy he’s feel so happy, w’en he’s goin’ right away,

See hees fader an’ hees moder, see hees sister an’ hees broder,

  An’ de girl he spark las’ summer, if she’s not get mariée.

Wall we start heem out wan morning, an’ de pilot geev us warning,

  “W’en you come on Rapide Cuisse, ma frien’, keep raf’ she’s head on shore,

If you struck beeg rock on middle, w’ere le diable is play hees fiddle,

  Dat’s de tam you pass on some place, you don’t never pass before.”

But we’ll not t’ink moche of danger, for de rapide she’s no stranger

  Many tam we’re runnin’ t’roo it, on de fall an’ on de spring,

On mos’ ev’ry kin’ of wedder dat le Bon Dieu scrape togedder,

  An’ we’ll never drown noboddy, an’ we’ll never bus’ somet’ing.

Dere was Telesphore Montbriand, Paul Desjardins, Louis Guyon,

  Bill McKeever, Aleck Gauthier, an’ hees cousin Jean Bateese,

’Poleon Doré, Aimé Beaulieu, wit’ some more man I can’t tole you,

  Dat was mak’ it bes’ gang never run upon de St. Maurice.

Dis is jus’ de tam I wish me, I could spik de good English—me—

  For tole you of de pleasurement we get upon de spring,

W’en de win’ she’s all a sleepin’, an’ de raf’ she go a sweepin’

  Down de reever on some morning, w’ile le rossignol is sing.

Ev’ryt’ing so nice an’ quiet on de shore as we pass by it,

  All de tree got fine new spring suit, ev’ry wan she’s dress on green

W’y it mak’ us all more younger, an’ we don’t feel any hunger,

  Till de cook say “ ‘Raw for breakfas’,” den we smell de pork an’ bean.

Some folk say she’s bad for leever, but for man work hard on reever,

  Dat’s de bes’ t’ing I can tole you, dat was never yet be seen,

’Course dere’s oder t’ing ah tak’ me, fancy dish also I lak me,

  But w’en I want somet’ing solid, please pass me de pork an’ bean.

All dis tam de raf’ she’s goin’ lak steamboat was got us towin’,

  All we do is keep de channel, an’ dat’s easy workin’ dere,

So we sing some song an’ chorus, for de good tam dat’s before us,

  W’en de w’ole beez-nesse she’s finish, an’ we come on Trois Rivieres.

But bad luck is sometam fetch us, for beeg strong win’ come an’ ketch us,

  Jus’ so soon we struck de rapide—jus’ so soon we see de smoke,

An’ before we spik some prayer for ourse’f dat’s fightin’ dere,

  Roun’ we come upon de beeg rock, an’ it’s den de raf’ she broke.

Dat was tam poor Paul Desjardins, from de parish of St. Germain,

  He was long way on de fronte side, so he’s failin’ overboar’

Couldn’t swim at all de man say, but dat’s more ma frien’, I can say,

  Any how he’s look lak drownin’, so we’ll t’row him two t’ree oar.

Dat’s ’bout all de help our man do, dat’s ’bout ev’ryt’ing we can do,

  As de crib we’re hangin’ onto balance on de rock itse’f,

Till de young Napoleon Doré, heem I start for tole de story,

  Holler out, “Mon Dieu, I don’t lak see poor Paul go drown hese’f.”

So he’s mak’ beeg jomp on water, jus’ de sam you see some otter

  An’ he’s pass on place w’ere Paul is tryin’ hard for keep afloat,

Den we see Napoleon ketch heem, try hees possibill for fetch heem

  But de current she’s more stronger, an’ de eddy get dem bote.

O Mon Dieu! for see dem two man, mak’ me feel it cry lak woman,

  Roun’ an’ roun’ upon de eddy, quickly dem poor feller go,

Can’t tole wan man from de oder, an’ we’ll know dem bote lak broder,

  But de fight she soon is finish—Paul an’ ’Poleon go below.

Yass, an’ all de tam we stay dere, only t’ing we do is pray dere,

  For de soul poor drownin’ feller, dat’s enough mak’ us feel mad,

Torteen voyageurs, all brave man, glad get any chances save man,

  But we don’t see no good chances, can’t do not’ing, dat’s too bad.

Wall! at las’ de crib she’s come way off de rock, an’ den on some way,

  By an’ by de w’ole gang’s passin’ on safe place below de Cuisse,

Ev’ryboddy’s heart she’s breakin’, w’en dey see poor Paul he’s taken

  Wit’ de young Napoleon Doré, bes’ boy on de St. Maurice!

An’ day affer, Bill McKeever fin’ de bote man on de reever,

  Wit’ deir arm aroun’ each oder, mebbe pass above dat way—

So we bury dem as we fin’ dem, w’ere de pine tree wave behin’ dem

  An’ de Grande Montagne he’s lookin’ down on Marcheterre Bay.

You can’t hear no church bell ring dere, but le rossignol is sing dere,

  An’ w’ere ole red cross she’s stannin’, mebbe some good ange gardien,

Watch de place w’ere bote man sleepin’, keep de reever grass from creepin’

  On de grave of ’Poleon Doré, an’ of poor Paul Desjardins.

M’SIEU Paul Joulin, de Notaire Publique

  Is come I s’pose seexty year hees life

An’ de mos’ riche man on Sainte Angelique

  W’en he feel very sorry he got no wife—

So he’s paint heem hees buggy, lak new, by Gor!

  Put flower on hees coat, mak’ hese’f more gay

Arrange on hees head fine chapeau castor

  An’ drive on de house of de Boulanger.

For de Boulanger’s got heem une jolie fille

  Mos’ bes’ lookin’ girl on paroisse dey say

An’ all de young feller is lak Julie

  An’ plaintee is ax her for mak’ mariée,

But Julie she’s love only jus’ wan man,

  Hees nam’ it is Jérémie Dandurand

An’ he’s work for her sak’ all de hard he can,

  ’Way off on de wood, up de Mattawa.

M’Sieu Paul he spik him “Bonjour Mamzelle,

  You lak promenade on de church wit’ me?

Jus’ wan leetle word an’ we go ma belle

  An’ see heem de Curé toute suite, chérie;

I dress you de very bes’ style à la mode,

  If you promise for be Madame Paul Joulin,

For I got me fine house on Bord à Plouffe road

  Wit’ mor’gage also on de Grande Moulin.”

But Julie she say “Non, non, M’Sieu Paul,

  Dat’s not correc’ t’ing for poor Jérémie

For I love dat young feller lak not’ing at all,

  An’ I’m very surprise you was not know me.

Jérémie w’en he’s geev me dat nice gol’ ring,

  Las’ tam he’s gone off on de Mattawa

Say he’s got ’noder wan w’en he’s come nex’ spring

  Was mak’ me for sure Madame Dandurand.

“I t’ank you de sam’ M’Sieu Paul Joulin

  I s’pose I mus’ be de wife wan poor man

Wit’ no chance at all for de Grande Moulin,

  But leev all de tam on some small cabane.”

De Notaire Publique den is tak’ hees hat,

  For he t’ink sure enough dat hees dog she’s dead;

Dere’s no use mak’ love on de girl lak dat,

  Wit’ not’ing but young feller on de head.

Julie she’s feel lonesome mos’ all dat week,

  Don’t know w’at may happen she wait till spring

Den t’ink de fine house of Notaire Publique

  An’ plaintee more too—but love’s funny t’ing!

So nex’ tam she see de Notaire again,

  She laugh on her eye an’ say “M’Sieu Paul

Please pass on de house, or you ketch de rain,

  Dat’s very long tam you don’t come at all.”

She’s geev him so soon he’s come on de door

  Du vin de pays, an’ some nice galettes,

She’s mak’ dem herse’f only day before

  An’ he say “Bigosh! dat is fine girl yet.”

So he’s try hees chances some more—hooraw!

  Julie is not mak’ so moche troub’ dis tam;

She’s forget de poor Jérémie Dandurand

  An’ tole de Notaire she will be hees famme.

W’en Jérémie come off de wood nex’ spring,

  An’ fin’ dat hees girl she was get mariée

Everybody’s expec’ he will do somet’ing,

  But he don’t do not’ing at all, dey say;

For he’s got ’noder girl on Sainte Dorothée,

  Dat he’s love long tam, an’ she don’t say “No,”

So he’s forget too all about Julie

  An’ mak’ de mariée wit’ hese’f also.

VICTORIAW: she have beeg war, E-gyp’s de nam’ de place—

An’ neeger peep dat’s leev ’im dere, got very black de face,

An’ so she’s write Joseph Mercier, he’s stop on Trois Rivieres—

“Please come right off, an’ bring wit’ you t’ree honder voyageurs.

“I got de plaintee sojer, me, beeg feller six foot tall—

Dat’s Englishman, an’ Scotch also, don’t wear no pant at all;

Of course, de Irishman’s de bes’, raise all de row he can,

But noboddy can pull batteau lak good Canadian man.

“I geev you steady job for sure, an’ w’en you get ’im t’roo

I bring you back on Canadaw, don’t cos’ de man un sou,

Dat’s firs’-class steamboat all de way Kebeck an’ Leeverpool,

An’ if you don’t be satisfy, you mus’ be beeg, beeg fool.”

We meet upon Hotel Dufresne, an’ talk heem till daylight,

An’ Joe he’s treat so many tam, we very near get tight,

Den affer w’ile, we mak’ our min’ dat’s not bad chance, an’ so

Joseph Merrier he’s telegraph, “Correc’, Madame, we go.”

So Joe arrange de whole beez-nesse wit’ Queen Victoriaw;

Two dollar day—work all de tam—dat’s purty good l’argent!

An’ w’en we start on Trois Rivieres, for pass on boar’ de ship,

Our frien’ dey all say, “Bon voyage,” an’ den Hooraw! E-gyp’!

Dat beeg steamboat was plonge so moche, I’m ’fraid she never stop—

De Capitaine’s no use at all, can’t kip her on de top—

An’ so we all come very sick, jus’ lak one leetle pup,

An’ ev’ry tam de ship’s go down, de inside she’s go up.

I’m sorry spoke lak dis, ma frien’, if you don’t t’ink it’s so,

Please ax Joseph Mercier hese’f, or Aleck De Courteau,

Dat stay on bed mos’ all de tam, so sick dey nearly die,

But lak’ some great, beeg Yankee man, was never tole de lie.

De gang she’s travel, travel, t’roo many strange contree,

An’ ev’ry place is got new nam’, I don’t remember, me,

We see some fonny t’ing, for sure, more fonny I can tell,

But w’en we reach de Neel Riviere, dat’s feel more naturel.

So many fine, beeg sojer man, I never see before,

All dress heem on grand uniform, is wait upon de shore,

Some black, some green, an’ red also, cos’ honder dollar sure,

An’ holler out, “She’s all right now, here come de voyageurs!”

We see boss Generale also, he’s ride on beeg chameau.

Dat’s w’at you call Ca-melle, I t’ink, I laugh de way she go!

Jomp up, jomp down, jomp ev’ry place, but still de Generale

Seem satisfy for stay on top, dat fonny an-i-mal.

He’s holler out on Joe Mercier, “Comment câ va Joseph

You lak for come right off wit’ me, tak’ leetle ride yourseff?”

Joseph, he mak’ de grand salut, an’ tak’ it off hees hat,

“Merci, Mon Generale,” he say, “I got no use for dat.”

Den affer we was drink somet’ing, an’ sing “Le Brigadier,”

De sojer fellers get prepare, for mak’ de embarquer,

An’ everybody’s shout heem out, w’en we tak’ hole de boat

“Hooraw pour Queen Victoriaw!” an’ also “pour nous autres.”

Bigosh; I do hard work mese’f upon de Ottawa,

De Gatineau an’ St. Maurice, also de Mattawa,

But I don’t never work at all, I ’sure you dat’s a fack

Until we strike de Neel Riviere, an’ sapré Catarack!

“Dis way, dat way, can’t keep her straight,” “look out, Bateese, look out!”

“Now let her go”—“arrete un peu,” dat’s way de pilot shout,

“Don’t wash de neeger girl on shore,” an’ “prenez garde behin”

“W’at’s’matter wit’ dat rudder man? I t’ink he’s goin’ blin’!”

Some tam of course, de boat’s all right, an’ carry us along

An’ den again, we mak portage, w’en current she’s too strong

On place lak’ dat, we run good chance, for sun-struck on de neck,

An’ plaintee tam we wish ourseff was back on ole Kebeck.

De seconde Catarack we pass, more beeger dan de Soo,

She’s nearly torty mile for sure, it would astonish you,

Dat’s place t’ree Irishman get drown, wan day we have beeg storm,

I s’pose de Queen is feel lak cry, los’ dat nice uniform!

De night she’s very, very cole, an’ hot upon de day,

An’ all de tam, you feel jus’ lak you’re goin’ melt away,

But never min’ an’ don’t get scare, you mak’ it up all right,

An’ twenty poun’ you los’ dat day, she’s comin’ back sam’ night.

We got small bugle boy also, he’s mebbe stan’ four foot,

An’ firs’ t’ing ev’ry morning, sure, he mak’ it toot! toot! toot!

She’s nice enough upon de day, for hear de bugle call,

But w’en she play before daylight, I don’t lak dat at all.

We mus’ get up immediatement, dat leetle feller blow,

An’ so we start heem off again, for pull de beeg batteau,

De sojer man he’s nice, nice boy, an’ help us all he can,

An’ geev heem chance, he’s mos’ as good lak some Canadian man.

Wall all de tam, she go lak dat, was busy every day,

Don’t get moche chance for foolishness, don’t get no chance for play,

Dere’s plaintee danger all aroun’, an’ w’en we’re comin’ back

We got look out for run heem safe, dem sapré Catarack.

But w’ere’s de war? I can’t mak’ out, don’t see no fight at all!

She’s not’ing but une Grande Piqnique, dat’s las’ in all de fall!

Mebbe de neeger King he’s scare, an’ skip anoder place,

An’ pour la Reine Victoriaw! I never see de face.

But dat’s not ma beez-nesse, ma frien’, I’m ready pull batteau

So long she pay two dollar day, wit’ pork an’ bean also;

An’ if she geev me steady job, for mak’ some more l’argent,

I say, “Hooraw! for all de tam, on Queen Victoriaw!”

O SPIRIT of the mountain that speaks to us to-night,

Your voice is sad, yet still recalls past visions of delight,

When ’mid the grand old Laurentides, old when the earth was new,

With flying feet we followed the moose and caribou.

And backward rush sweet memories, like fragments of a dream,

We hear the dip of paddle blades, the ripple of the stream,

The mad, mad rush of frightened wings from brake and covert start,

The breathing of the woodland, the throb of nature’s heart.

Once more beneath our eager feet the forest carpet springs,

We march through gloomy valleys, where the vesper sparrow sings.

The little minstrel heeds us not, nor stays his plaintive song,

As with our brave coureurs de bois we swiftly pass along.

Again o’er dark Wayagamack, in bark canoe we glide,

And watch the shades of evening glance along the mountain side.

Anon we hear resounding the wizard loon’s wild cry,

And mark the distant peak whereon the ling’ring echoes die.

But Spirit of the Northland! let the winter breezes blow,

And cover every giant crag with rifts of driving snow.

Freeze every leaping torrent, bind all the crystal lakes,

Tell us of fiercer pleasures when the Storm King awakes.

And now the vision changes, the winds are loud and shrill,

The falling flakes are shrouding the mountain and the hill,

But safe within our snug cabane with comrades gathered near,

We set the rafters ringing with “Roulant” and “Brigadier.”

Then after Pierre and Telesphore have danced “Le Caribou,”

Some hardy trapper tells a tale of the dreaded Loup Garou,

Or phantom bark in moonlit heavens, with prow turned to the East,

Bringing the Western voyageurs to join the Christmas feast.

And while each backwoods troubadour is greeted with huzza

Slowly the homely incense of “tabac Canayen”

Rises and sheds its perfume like flowers of Araby,

O’er all the true-born loyal Enfants de la Patrie.

And thus with song and story, with laugh and jest and shout,

We heed not dropping mercury nor storms that rage without,

But pile the huge logs higher till the chimney roars with glee,

And banish spectral visions with La Chanson Normandie.

    “Brigadier! répondit Pandore

     Brigadier! vous avez raison,

     Brigadier! répondit Pandore,

     Brigadier! vous avez raison!”

O spirit of the mountain! that speaks to us to-night,

Return again and bring us new dreams of past delight,

And while our heart-throbs linger, and till our pulses cease,

We’ll worship thee among the hills where flows the Saint-Maurice.

HE sit on de corner mos’ every night, ole Phil-o-rum Juneau,

Spik wit’ hese’f an’ shake de head, an’ smoke on de pipe also—

Very hard job it’s for wake him up, no matter de loud we call

W’en he’s feex hese’f on de beeg arm-chair, back on de kitchen wall.

He don’t believe not’ing at all, at all ’bout lates’ new fashion t’ing

Le char ’lectrique an’ de telephome, was talk w’en de bell she ring

Dat’s leetle too moche for de ole bonhomme, mak’ him shake it de head an’ say

“Wat’s use mak’ de foolish lak dat, sapré! I’m not born only yesterday.”

But if you want story dat’s true, true, true, I tole you good wan moi-même

An’ de t’ing you was spik, dat I don’t believe, for sure she was beat all dem.

So he’s cough leetle cough, clear ’im up de t’roat, fill hees pipe wit’ some more tabac,

An’ w’en de chil’ren is come tranquille, de ole man begin comme câ.

L’enfant! l’enfant! it’s very strange t’ing! mak’ me laugh too w’en I hear

De young peep talk of de long, long tam of seventy, eighty year!

Dat’s only be jus’ eighty New Year Day, an’ quickly was pass it by

It’s beeg, beeg dream, an’ you don’t wake up, till affer you’re comin’ die.

Dat’s true sure enough, you see curi’s t’ing, if you only leev leetle w’ile,

So long you got monee go all de place, for mebbe t’ree t’ousan’ mile,

But monee’s not everyt’ing on dis worl’, I tole you dat, mes amis,

An’ man can be ole lak’ two honder year, an’ not see it, La Chasse Gal’rie.

I never forget de fine New Year night, nearly seexty year ago,

W’en I’m lef’ it our place for attend soirée, on ole Maxime Baribault,

Nine mile away, I can see tin roof, on church of de St. Joseph,

An’ over de snow, de leaf dat die las’ fall, was chasin’ itse’f.

Dere was some of de neighbor house I call, dat’s be de ole fashion style,

An’ very nice style too, mes amis, I hope she will las’ long w’ile,

I shak’ it de han’, I drink santé, an’ kiss it de girl she’s face,

So it’s come ten o’clock, w’en I pass on road, for visit Maxime hees place.

But I’m not go more mebbe t’ree arpent, w’en de sky is get black all roun’,

An’ de win’ she blow lak I never see, an’ de beeg snowstorm come down.

I mak’ it my min’ she’s goin’ be soon, de very bad night for true,

Dat’s locky I got plaintee whiskey lef’, so I tak’ it wan leetle “coup.”

Purty quick affer dat, I’m comin’ nice place, was stan’in’ some fine beeg tree

W’ere de snow don’t dreef’, an’ it seem jus’ lak dat place it is mak’ for me,

So I pass it on dere, for mak’ safe mese’f, w’ile de storm is blow outside,

As if all de devil on hell below, was tak’ heem some fancy ride.

Wan red fox he’s comin’ so close, so close, I could ketch him wit’ de han’,

But not on de tam lak dis ma frien’, “Marche toi all de quick you can,”

Poor feller he’s tire an’ seem los’ hees way, an’ w’en he reach home dat night

Mebbe he fin’ it all was close up, an’ de door it was fassen tight.

But w’at is dat soun’ mak’ de hair stan’ up, w’at is it mean, dat cry?

Comin’ over de high tree top, out of de nor’-wes’ sky

Lak cry of de wil’ goose w’en she pass on de spring tam an’ de fall,

But wil’ goose fly on de winter night! I never see dat at all.

On, on t’roo de night, she is quickly come, more closer all de tam,

But not lak de cry of some wil’ bird now, don’t seem it at all de sam’;

An’ den wit’ de rush of de win’, I hear somebody sing chanson

An’ de song dey sing is de ole, ole song, “Le Canayen Errant.”

But it’s mak’ me lonesome an’ scare also, jus’ sam’ I be goin’ for die

W’en I lissen dat song on night lak dis, so far away on de sky,

Don’t know w’at to do at all mese’f, so I go w’ere I have good view,

An’ up, up above t’roo de storm an’ snow, she’s comin’ wan beeg canoe.

Den somebody call it ma nam’ out loud, firs’ tam it was scare me so,

“We know right away, dat was you be dere, hello Phil-o-rum, hello!”

An’ soon I see him dat feller spik, I ’member him too mese’f,

We go de sam’ school twenty year before, hees nam’s Telesphore Le Boeuf.

But I know on de way canoe she go, dat de crowd he mus’ be dead man

Was come from de Grande Riviere du Nord, come from Saskatchewan,

Come too from all de place is lie on de Hodson Bay Contree,

An’ de t’ing I was see me dat New Year night, is le phantome Chasse Gal’rie.

An’ many de boy I was see him dere, I know him so long before

He’s goin’ away on de far contree—for never return no more—

An’ now on phantome he is comin’ home—t’roo de storm an’ de hurricane

For kiss him de girl on jour de l’an, an’ see de ole peep again.

De beeg voyageur w’at is steer canoe, wit’ paddle hol’ on hees han’

Got very long hair was hang down hees neck, de sam’ as wil’ Injin man

Invite me on boar’ dat phantome canoe, for show it dead man de way—

Don’t lak it de job, but no use refuse, so I’ll mak’ it de embarquer.

Den wan of de gang, he mus’ be foreman, say it’s tam for have leetle drink,

So he pass heem black bottle for tak’ un “coup,” an’ it’s look lak ma own I t’ink,

But it can’t be de sam’, I’ll be swear for dat, for w’en I was mak’ de go,

I fin’ dere is not’ing inside but win’, an’ de whiskey’s phantome also.

Dey be laugh affer dat, lak dey tak’ some fit, so de boss spik him, “Tiens Phil-o-rum,

Never min’ on dem feller—mus’ have leetle sport, dat’s very long way we come,

Will you ketch it de paddle for steer us quick on place of Maxime Baribault?”

An’ he’s ax me so nice, I do as he please’, an’ den away off she go.

Wan minute—two minute—we pass on dere, Maxime he is all hooraw!

An’ we know by musique dat was play inside, mus’ be de great Joe Violon,

Dat feller work fiddle on very bes’ way, dat nobody never see

Mak’ de boy an’ de girl, ole peep also, dance lak dey was go crazee.

You s’pose dey was let me come on dat house? Not at all, for de boss he say,

“Phil-o-rum, it’s long tam we don’t see our frien’ can’t get heem chance ev’ry day,

Please stop on canoe so she won’t blow off, w’ile we pass on de house an’ see

Dem frien’ we was lef’ an’ de girl we spark, before we go strange contree.”

An’ me I was sit on canoe outside, jus’ lak I was sapré fou,

Watchin’ dem feller dat’s all dead man, dance heem lak Loup Garou.

De boss he kiss Marie Louise, ma girl, dat’s way he spen’ mos’ de tam,

But of course she know not’ing of dat biz-nesse—don’t lak it me jus’ de sam’.

By tam I’m commence it for feel de col’, dey’re all comin’ out encore,

An’ we start off again t’roo de sky, hooraw! for mak’ de visite some more,

All de place on de parish we go dat night, w’erever dey get some dance,

Till I feel it so tire, I could sleep right off, but dey don’t geev it me no chance.

De las’ place we’re passin’ dat’s Bill Boucher, he’s very good frien’ of me,

An’ I t’ink it’s near tam I was lef’ dat crowd, so I’ll snub de canoe on tree,

Den affer dead man he was safe inside, an’ ev’rywan start danser,

I go on de barn wat’s behin’ de house, for see I can’t hide away.

She’s nice place de barn, an’ got plaintee warm, an’ I’m feel very glad be dere,

So long dead feller don’t fin’ me out, an’ ketch it me on de hair,

But s’pose I get col’, work him hard all night, ’cos I make it wan leetle cough,

W’en de rooster he’s scare, holler t’ree, four tam, an’ whole t’ing she bus’ right off.

I’ll never see not’ing so quick again—Canoe an’ dead man go scat!

She’s locky de rooster he mak’ de noise, bus’ ev’ryt’ing up lak dat,

Or mebbe dem feller get me encore, an’ tak’ me on Hodson Bay,

But it’s all right now, for de morning’s come, an’ he see me ole Bill Boucher.

I’m feel it so tire, an’ sore all de place, wit’ all de hard work I do’

’Cos I’m not very use for mak’ paddle, me, on beeg, beeg phantome canoe,

But Bill an’ hees boy dey was leef me up, an’ carry me on maison

W’ere plaintee nice t’ing dey was mak’ me eat an’ drink it some whiskey blanc.

An’ now w’en I’m finish, w’at you t’ink it youse’f, ’bout story dat you was hear?

No wonner ma hair she is all turn w’ite before I get eighty year!

But ’member dis t’ing, I be tole you firs, don’t los’ it mes chers amis,

De man he can leev him on long, long tam, an’ not see it La Chasse Gal’rie!

He sit on de corner mos’ every night, ole Phil-o-rum Juneau,

Spik wit’ hesef,’ an’ shak’ de head, an’ smoke on de pipe also,

But kip very quiet, don’t wak’ him up, let him stay on de kitchen wall,

For if you believe w’at de ole man say, you believe anyt’ing at all.

GO ’way, go ’way, don’t ring no more, ole bell of Saint Michel,

For if you do, I can’t stay here, you know dat very well,

No matter how I close ma ear, I can’t shut out de soun’,

It rise so high ’bove all de noise of dis beeg Yankee town.

An’ w’en it ring, I t’ink I feel de cool, cool summer breeze

Dat’s blow across Lac Peezagonk, an’ play among de trees,

Dey’re makin’ hay, I know mese’f, can smell de pleasant smell

O! how I wish I could be dere to-day on Saint Michel!

It’s fonny t’ing, for me I’m sure, dat’s travel ev’ryw’ere,

How moche I t’ink of long ago w’en I be leevin’ dere;

I can’t ’splain dat at all, at all, mebbe it’s naturel,

But I can’t help it w’en I hear de bell of Saint Michel.

Dere’s plaintee t’ing I don’t forget, but I remember bes’

De spot I fin’ wan day on June de small san’piper’s nes’

An’ dat hole on de reever w’ere I ketch de beeg, beeg trout

Was very nearly pull me in before I pull heem out.

An’ leetle Elodie Leclaire, I wonner if she still

Leev jus’ sam’ place she use to leev on ’noder side de hill.

But s’pose she marry Joe Barbeau, dat’s alway hangin’ roun’

Since I am lef’ ole Saint Michel for work on Yankee town.

Ah! dere she go, ding dong, ding, dong, its back, encore again

An’ ole chanson come on ma head of “a la claire fontaine,”

I’m not surprise it soun’ so sweet, more sweeter I can tell

For wit’ de song also I hear de bell of Saint Michel.

It’s very strange about dat bell, go ding dong all de w’ile

For when I’m small garçon at school, can’t hear it half a mile;

But seems more farder I get off from Church of Saint Michel,

De more I see de ole village an’ louder soun’ de bell!

O! all de monee dat I mak’ w’en I be travel roun’

Can’t kip me long away from home on dis beeg Yankee town,

I t’ink I’ll settle down again on Parish Saint Michel,

An’ leev an’ die more satisfy so long I hear dat bell.

PELANG! Pelang! Mon cher garçon,

  I t’ink of you—t’ink of you night and day—

Don’t mak’ no difference, seems to me

  De long long tam you’re gone away.

De snow is deep on de Grande Montagne—

  Lak tonder de rapide roar below—

De sam’ kin’ night, ma boy get los’

  On beeg, beeg storm forty year ago.

An’ I never was hear de win’ blow hard,

  An’ de snow come sweesh on de window pane—

But ev’ryt’ing ’pear lak’ it’s yesterday

  An’ whole of ma troub’ is come back again.

Ah me! I was foolish young girl den

  It’s only ma own plaisir I care,

An’ w’en some dance or soirée come off

  Dat’s very sure t’ing you will see me dere.

Don’t got too moche sense at all dat tam,

  Run ev’ry place on de whole contree—

But I change beeg lot w’en Pelang come ’long,

  For I love him so well, kin’ o’ steady me.

An’ he was de bes’ boy on Coteau,

  An’ t’ink I am de bes’ girl too for sure—

He’s tole me dat, geev de ring also

  Was say on de inside “Je t’aime toujours.”

I geev heem some hair dat come off ma head,

  I mak’ de nice stocking for warm hees feet,

So ev’ryt’ing’s feex, w’en de spring is come

  For mak’ mariée on de church toute suite.

“W’en de spring is come!” Ah I don’t see dat,

  Dough de year is pass as dey pass before,

An’ de season come, an’ de season go,

  But our spring never was come no more.

It’s on de fête of de jour de l’an,

  An’ de worl’ outside is cole an’ w’ite

As I sit an’ watch for mon cher Pelang

  For he’s promise come see me dis very night.

Bonhomme Peloquin dat is leev near us—

  He’s alway keep look heem upon de moon—

See fonny t’ing dere only week before,

  An’ say he’s expec’ some beeg storm soon.

So ma fader is mak’ it de laugh on me

  “Pelang he’s believe heem de ole Bonhomme

Dat t’ink he see ev’ryt’ing on de moon

  An’ mebbe he’s feel it too scare for come.”

But I don’t spik not’ing I am so sure

  Of de promise Pelang is mak’ wit’ me—

An’ de mos’ beeg storm dat is never blow

  Can’t kip heem away from hees own Marie.

I open de door, an’ pass outside

  For see mese’f how de night is look

An’ de star is commence for go couché

  De mountain also is put on hees tuque.

No sooner, I come on de house again

  W’ere ev’ryt’ing feel it so nice an’ warm,

Dan out of de sky come de Nor’ Eas’ win’—

  Out of de sky come de beeg snow storm.

Blow lak not’ing I never see,

  Blow lak le diable he was mak’ grande tour;

De snow come down lak wan avalanche,

  An’ cole! Mon Dieu, it is cole for sure!

I t’ink, I t’ink of mon pauvre garçon,

  Dat’s out mebbe on de Grande Montagne;

So I place chandelle w’ere it’s geev good light,

  An’ pray Le Bon Dieu he will help Pelang.

De ole folk t’ink I am go crazee,

  An’ moder she’s geev me de good night kiss:

She say “Go off on your bed, Marie,

  Dere’s nobody come on de storm lak dis.”

But ma eye don’t close dat long, long, night

  For it seem jus’ lak phantome is near,

An’ I t’ink of de terrible Loup Garou

  An’ all de bad story I offen hear.

Dere was tam I am sure somet’ing call “Marie”

  So plainly I open de outside door,

But it’s meet me only de awful storm,

  An’ de cry pass away—don’t come no more.

An’ de morning sun, w’en he’s up at las’,

  Fin’ me w’ite as de face of de snow itse’f,

For I know very well, on de Grande Montagne,

  Ma poor Pelang he’s come dead hese’f.

It’s noon by de clock w’en de storm blow off,

  An’ ma fader an’ broder start out for see

Any track on de snow by de mountain side,

  Or down on de place w’ere chemin should be.

No sign at all on de Grande Montagne,

  No sign all over de w’ite, w’ite snow;

Only hear de win’ on de beeg pine tree,

  An’ roar of de rapide down below.

An’ w’ere is he lie, mon cher Pelang!

  Pelang ma boy I was love so well?

Only Le Bon Dieu up above

  An’ mebbe de leetle snow bird can tell.

An’ I t’ink I hear de leetle bird say,

  “Wait till de snow is geev up its dead,

Wait till I go, an’ de robin come,

  An’ den you will fin’ hees cole, cole bed.”

An’ it’s all come true, for w’en de sun

  Is warm de side of de Grande Montagne

An’ drive away all de winter snow,

  We fin’ heem at las’, mon cher Pelang!

An’ here on de fête of de jour de l’an,

  Alone by mese’f I sit again,

W’ile de beeg, beeg storm is blow outside,

  An’ de snow come sweesh on de window pane.

Not all alone, for I t’ink I hear

  De voice of ma boy gone long ago;

Can hear it above de hurricane,

  An’ roar of de rapide down below.

Yes—yes—Pelang, mon cher garçon!

  I t’ink of you, t’ink of you night an’ day,

Don’t mak’ no difference seems to me

  How long de tam you was gone away.

I’M poor man, me, but I buy las’ May

  Wan horse on de Comp’nie Passengaire,

An’ auction feller w’at sole heem say

  She’s out of de full-breed “Messengaire.”

Good trotter stock, also galluppe,

  But work long tam on de city car,

Of course she’s purty well break heem up,

  So come leetle cheap—twenty-wan dollarre.

Firs’ chance I sen’ heem on St. Cesaire,

  W’ere I t’ink he’s have moche better sight,

Mebbe de grass an’ de contree air

  Very soon was feex heem up all right.

I lef’ heem dere till de fall come ’long,

  An’ dat trotter he can’t eat grass no more,

An’ w’en I go dere, I fin’ heem strong

  Lak not’ing I never see before.

I heetch heem up on de light sulkee,

  L’enfant! dat horse he is cover groun’!

Don’t tak’ long tam for de crowd to see

  Mon choual he was leek all trotter roun’.

Come down de race course lak’ oiseau

  Tail over datch boar’, nice you please,

Can’t tell for sure de quick he go,

  S’pose somew’ere ’bout two, t’ree forties.

I treat ma frien’ on de whiskey blanc,

  An’ we drink “Castor” he’s bonne santé

From L’Achigan to St. Armand,

  He’s bes’ horse sure on de whole comté.

’Bout week on front of dis, Lalime,

  Dat man drive horse call “Clevelan’ Bay”

Was challenge, so I match wit’ heem

  For wan mile heat on straight away.

Dat’s twenty dollarre on wan side,

  De lawyer’s draw de paper out,

But if dem trotter come in tied,

  Wall! all dat monee’s go on spout.

Nex’ t’ing ma backer man, Labrie,

  Tak’ off his catch-book vingt cinq cents,

An’ toss Lalime bes’ two on t’ree

  For see who’s go on inside fence.

Bateese Lalime, he’s purty smart,

  An’ gain dat toss wit’ jockey trick.

I don’t care me, w’en “Castor” start,

  Very soon I t’ink he’s mak’ heem sick.

Beeg crowd of course was dere for see

  Dem trotter on de grand match race

Some people come from St. Remi

  An’ some from plaintee ’noder place.

W’en all is ready, flag was fall

  An’ way dem trotter pass on fence

Lak not’ing you never see at all,

  It mak’ me t’ink of “St. Lawrence.”^*

“Castor,” hees tail was stan’ so straight

  Could place chapeau on de en’ of top

An’ w’en he struck two forty gait

  Don’t seem he’s never go for stop.

Wall! dat’s all right for firs’ half mile

  W’en Clevelan’ Bay commence for break,

Dat mak’ me feel very moche lak smile,

  I’m sure “Castor” he’s took de cake.

But Lalime pull heem hard on line

  An’ stop “Clevelan’ ” before go far,

It’s all no good, he can’t ketch mine

  I’m go more quicker lak express car.

I’m feel all right for my monee,

  For sure mon Choual he’s took firs’ place,

W’en ’bout arpent from home, sapré,

  Somet’ing she’s happen, I’m los’ de race.

Wan bad boy he’s come out on track,

  I cannot see dat bad boy’s han’;

He’s hol’ somet’ing behin’ hees back,

  It was small bell, I understan’.

Can spik for dat, ma horse go well,

  An’ never show no sign of sweat,

Until dat boy he’s ring hees bell—

  Misere! I t’ink I hear heem yet!

Wall! jus’ so soon mon Choual “Castor”

  Was hear dat bell go kling! klang! kling!

He’s t’ink of course of city car,

  An’ s’pose mus’ be conductor ring.

Firs’ t’ing I know ma trotter’s drop

  Dat tail was stan’ so straight before,

An’ affer dat, mebbe he stop

  For me, I don’t know not’ing more.

But w’en I’m come alive again

  I fin’ dat horse call “Clevelan’ Bay”

Was got firs’ place, an’ so he’s gain

  Dat wan mile heat on straight away.

An’ now w’erever I am go

  Bad boy he’s sure for holler an’ yell

Dis donc! Dis donc! Paul Archambault!

  W’at’s matter wit’ your chestnutte bell?

Mak’ plaintee troub’ dem bad garçons,

  An’ offen ring some bell also,

Was mad! Could plonge on de St. Laurent

  An’ w’at to do, “Castor” don’t know.

Las’ tam I pass de railway track

  For drive avec mon frere Alfred,

In-jinne she’s ring, “Castor” he’s back,

  Monjee! it’s fonny I’m not come dead!

Toujours comme ça! an’ mak’ me sick,

  But horse dat work long on les chars

Can’t broke dem off on fancy trick

  So now I’m busy for sole “Castor.”

I LAK on summer ev’ning, w’en nice cool win’ is blowin’

  An’ up above ma head, I hear de pigeon on de roof,

To bring ma chair an’ sit dere, an’ watch de current flowin’

  Of ole Rivière des Prairies as she pass de Bord-a Plouffe.

But it seem dead place for sure now, on shore down by de lan’in’—

  No more de voyageurs is sing lak dey was sing alway—

De tree dey’re commence growin’ w’ere shaintee once is stan’in’,

  An’ no one scare de swallow w’en she fly across de bay.

I don’t lak see de reever she’s never doin’ not’in’

  But passin’ empty ev’ry day on Bout de l’ile below—

Ma ole shaloup dat’s lyin’ wit’ all its timber rottin’

  An’ tam so change on Bord-a Plouffe since forty year ago!

De ice dat freeze on winter, might jus’ as well be stay dere,

  For w’en de spring she’s comin’ de only t’ing I see

Is two, t’ree piqnique feller, hees girl was row away dere,

  Don’t got no use for water now, on Rivière des Prairies.

’Twas diff’rent on dem summer you couldn’t see de reever,

  Wit’ saw-log an’ squar’ timber raf’, mos’ all de season t’roo—

Two honder man an’ more too—all busy lak de beaver,

  An’ me! I’m wan de pilot for ronne ’em down de “Soo.”

Don’t ’member lak I use to, for now I’m gettin’ ole, me—

  But still I can’t forget Bill Wade, an’ Guillaume Lagassé,

Joe Monferrand, Bazile Montour—wit’ plaintee I can’t tole, me,

  An’ king of all de Bord-a Plouffe, M’sieu’ Venance Lemay.

Lak small boy on hees lesson, I learn de way to han’le

  Mos’ beeges’ raf’ is never float upon de Ottawaw,

Ma fader show me dat too, for well he know de channel,

  From Dutchman Rapide up above to Bout de l’ile en bas.

He’s smart man too, ma fader, only t’ing he got de bow-leg,

  Ridin’ log w’en leetle feller, mebbe dat’s de reason w’y.

All de sam’, if he’s in hurry, den Bagosh! he’s got heem no leg

  But wing an’ fedder lak oiseau, was fly upon de sky!

O dat was tam we’re happy, an’ man dey’re alway singin’,

  For if it’s hard work on de raf’, w’y dere’s your monee sure!

An’ ev’ry summer evenin’, ole Bord-a Plouffe she’s ringin’

  Wit’ “En Roulant ma Boulé” an’ “J’aimerai toujour.”

Dere dey’re comin’ on de wagon! fine young feller ev’ry wan too,

  Dress im up de ole tam fashion, dat I lak for see encore,

Yellin’ hooraw! t’roo de village, all de horse upon de ronne too,

  Ah poor Bord-a Plouffe! she never have dem tam again no more!

Very offen w’en I’m sleepin’, I was feel as if I’m goin’

  Down de ole Rivière des Prairies on de raf’ de sam as den—

An’ ma dream is only lef’ me, w’en de rooster commence crowin’

  But it can’t do me no harm, ’cos it mak’ me young again.

An’ upon de morning early, w’en de reever fog is clearin’

  An’ sun is makin’ up hees min’ for drive away de dew,

W’en young bird want hees breakfas’, I wak’ an’ t’ink I’m hearin’

  Somebody shout “Hooraw, Bateese, de raf’ she’s wait for you.”

Dat’s voice of Guillaume Lagassé was call me on de morning

  Jus’ outside on de winder w’ere you look across de bay,

But he’s drown upon de Longue “Soo,” wit’ never word of warning

  An’ green grass cover over poor Guillaume Lagassé.

I s’pose dat’s meanin’ somet’ing—mebbe I’m not long for stay here,

  Seein’ all dem strange t’ing happen—dead frien’ comin’ roun’ me so—

But I’m sure I die more happy, if I got jus’ wan more day here,

  Lak we have upon de ole tam Bord-a Plouffe of long ago!

TO the hut of the peasant, or lordly hall,

  To the heart of the king, or humblest thrall,

Sooner or late, love comes to all,

And it came to the Grand Seigneur, my dear,

        It came to the Grand Seigneur.

The robins were singing a roundelay,

And the air was sweet with the breath of May,

As a horseman rode thro’ the forest way,

And he was a Grand Seigneur, my dear,

        He was a Grand Seigneur.

Lord of the Manor, Count Bellefontaine,

Had spurr’d over many a stormy plain

With gallants of France at his bridle rein,

For he was a brave Cavalier, my dear—

        He was a brave Cavalier.

But the huntsman’s daughter, La Belle Marie,

Held the Knight’s proud heart in captivity,

And oh! she was fair as the fleur de lys,

Tho’ only a peasant maid, my dear,

        Only a peasant maid.

Thro’ the woodland depths on his charger grey

To the huntsman’s cottage he rides away,

And the maiden lists to a tale to-day

That haughtiest dame might hear, my dear,

        That haughtiest dame might hear.

But she cried “Alas! it may never be,

For my heart is pledged to the young Louis,

And I love him, O Sire, so tenderly,

Tho’ he’s only a poor Chasseur, my Lord,

        Only a poor Chasseur.”

“Enough,” spake the Knight with a courtly bow,

“Be true to thy lover and maiden vow,

For virtue like thine is but rare, I trow,

And farewell to my dream of love, and thee,

        Farewell to my dream of thee.”

And they say the gallant Count Bellefontaine

Bestowed on the couple a rich domain,

But you never may hear such tale again,

For he was a Grand Seigneur, my dear,

        He was a Grand Seigneur!

WAN morning de walkim boss say “Damase,

  I t’ink you’re good man on canoe d’ecorce,

So I’ll ax you go wit’ your frien’ Philéas

  An’ meet M’sieu Smit’ on Chenail W’ite Horse.

“He’ll have I am sure de grosse baggage—

  Mebbe some valise—mebbe six or t’ree—

But if she’s too moche for de longue portage

  ’Poleon he will tak’ ’em wit’ mail buggee.”

W’en we reach Chenail, plaintee peep be dere,

  An’ wan frien’ of me, call Placide Chretien,

’Splain all dat w’en he say man from Angleterre

  Was spik heem de crowd on de “Parisien.”

Fonny way dat Englishman he’ll be dress,

  Leetle pant my dear frien’ jus’ come on knee,

Wit’ coat dat’s no coat at all—only ves’

  An’ hat—de more stranger I never see!

Wall! dere he sit on de en’ some log

  An’ swear heem in English purty loud

Den talk Français, w’ile hees chien boule dog

  Go smellim an’ smellim aroun’ de crowd.

I spik im “Bonjour, M’sieu Smit’, Bonjour,

  I hope dat yourse’f and famille she’s well?”

M’sieu Smit’ he is also say “Bonjour,”

  An’ call off hees dog dat’s commence for smell.

I tell heem my name dat’s Damase Labrie

  I am come wit’ Philéas for mak’ de trip,

An’ he say I’m de firs’ man he never see

  Spik English encore since he lef’ de ship.

He is also ax it to me “Damase,

  De peep she don’t seem understan’ Français,

W’at’s matter wit’ dat?” An’ I say “Becos’

  You mak’ too much talk on de Parisien.”

De groun’ she is pile wit’ baggage—Sapré!

  An’ I see purty quick we got plaintee troub—

Two tronk, t’ree valise, four-five fusil,

  An’ w’at M’sieu Smit’ he is call “bat’ tubbe.”

M’sieu Smit’ he’s tole me w’at for’s dat t’ing,

  An’ it seem Englishman he don’t feel correc’

Until he’s go plonge on some bat’ morning

  An’ sponge it hees possibill high hees neck.

Of course dat’s not’ing of my beez-nesse,

  He can plonge on de water mos’ ev’ry day,

But I t’ink for mese’f it mak’ foolishness

  An’ don’t do no good w’en your bonne santé.

W’en I tell ’Poleon he mus’ mak’ dat job,

  Dere’s leetle too moche for canoe d’écorce,

He’s mad right away an’ say “Sapré diable!

  You t’ink I go work lak wan niggerhorse?

“I’m not manufacture dat way, bâ non,

  Dat rich stranger man he have lot monee,

I go see my frien’ Onésime Gourdon,

  An’ tole heem bring horse wit’ some more buggee.”

Wall! affer some w’ile dey’ll arrange all dat,

  ’Poleon an’ hees frien’ Onésime Gourdon,

But w’en ’Poleon is tak’ hole of bat’,

  He receive it beeg scare immediatement!

Dat chien boule dog, I was tole you ’bout

  I am not understan’ w’at good she’s for,

Eat ’Poleon’s leg w’it hees teet’ an’ mout,

  ’Poleon he is feel very mad—by Gor!

Of course I am poule heem hees tail toute suite

  But I don’t know some reason mak’ all dis troub’,

W’en I hear me dat Englishman, M’sieu Smit’

  Say ’Poleon, w’at for you took my tubbe?

“Leff ’im dere—for I don’t low nobodee

  Walk heem off on any such way lak dat;

You may tak’ all de res’, an’ I don’t care me—

  But de man he’ll be keel who is tak’ my bat’.”

“I will carry heem wit’ me,” say M’sieu Smit’—

  “W’erever dat tubbe she mus’ go, I go—

No matter de many place we visite,

  An’ my sponge I will tak’ mese’f also.”

Philéas say “Damase, we mus’ buil’ some raf’

  Or mebbe some feller be sure get drown”;

Dis geev me plaisir, but I’m scare mak’ laf’,

  So I’ll do it mese’f, inside, way down.

At las’ we are start on voyage, sure nuff,

  M’sieu Smit’ carry tubbe on de top hees head,

Good job, I t’ink so, de lac isn’t rough,

  Or probably dis tam, we’re all come dead.

De dog go wit’ Onésime Gourdon,

  An’ Onésime afferwar’ say to me,

“Dat chien boule dog is eat ’Poleon

  Was de more quiet dog I never see.”

But fun she’s commence on very nex’ day

  W’en we go camp out on de Castor Noir.

Dat Englishman he’ll come along an’ say

  “I hope some wil’ Injun she don’t be dere.

“I have hear many tam, dat de wood be foule

  Of Injun w’at tak’ off de hair your head.

But so surely my name she’s Johnnie Boule

  If I see use dem feller I shoot it dead.”

Philéas den pray harder, more quick he can

  Mebbe he’s t’ink dat’s hees las’ portage

De moder hees fader, she’s Injun man

  Derefore an’ also, he is wan Sauvage.

I say “Don’t mak’ it some excitement;

  Saison she is ‘close’ on de spring an’ fall,

An’ dem peep dat work on de Gouvernement

  Don’t lak you shoot Injun dis mont’ at all.”

Nex’ day M’sieu Smit’ is perform hees plonge

  We see heem go done it—Philéas an’ me,

An’ w’en he’s hang up bat’ tubbe an’ sponge

  We go on de wood for mak’ Chasse perdrix.

An’ mebbe you will not believe to me,

  But w’en we come back on de camp encore

De sponge of dat Englishman don’t be see,

  An’ we fin’ beeg bear she’s go dead on shore.

Very fonny t’ing how he’s loss hees life,

  But Philéas he’ll know hese’f purty quick,

He cut M’sieu Bear wit’ hees hunter knife,

  An’ sponge she’s fall out on de bear stummick.

Day affer we get two fox houn’ from Boss

  Dat’s good for ketch deer on de fall an’ spring,

Den place Englishman w’ere he can’t get los’

  An’ tole heem shoot quicker he see somet’ing.

Wat’s dat leetle deer got no horn at all?

  She’ll be moder small wan en suite bimeby,

Don’t remember mese’f w’at name she’s call,

  But dat’s de kin’ start w’en de dog is cry.

We see heem come down on de runaway

  De dog she is not very far behin’

An’ w’en dey pass place M’sieu Smit’ is stay

  We expec’ he will shoot or make noise some kin’!

But he’s not shoot at all, mon cher ami,

  So we go an’ we ax “Is he see some deer?”

He say “Dat’s long tam I am stay on tree

  But I don’t see not’ing she’s pass on here.”

We spik heem once more, “He don’t see fox houn’?”

  W’at you t’ink he is say, dat Englishman?

“Yes, I see dem pass quickly, upon de groun’,

  Wan beeg yellow dog, an’ two small brown wan.”

He’s feel de more bad I don’t see before

  W’en he know dat beeg dog, she’s wan small deer,

An’ for mak’ ev’ryt’ing correc’ encore

  We drink I am sure six bouteilles de bière.

Nex’ day—dat’s Dimanche—he is spik to me,

  “Damase, you mus’ feel leetle fatigue,

You may sle’p wit’ Philéas w’ile I go an’ see

  I can’t get some nice quiet tam to-day.”

So for keep ’way skeeter, an’ fly also

  Bouteille from de shelf M’sieu Smit’ he tak’,

Den he start wit’ his chien boule dog an’ go

  For nice quiet walk on shore of lac.

We don’t sle’p half hour w’en dere’s beeg, beeg yell,

  Lak somet’ing I’m sure don’t hear long tam,

An’ we see wan feller we cannot tell,

  Till he spik it, “Damase! Philéas!! dam dam!!!

Den we know it at once mon, cher ami,

  But she’s swell up hees face—hees neck an’ han’!

It seem all de skeeter on w’ole contree

  Is jump on de head of dat Englishman.

Some water on poor M’sieu Smit’ we’ll t’row,

  An’ w’en he’s tranquille fin’ out ev’ryt’ing;

Bouteille he’s rub on, got some nice sirop

  I was mak’ mese’f on de wood las’ spring.

Dere was jus’ ’noder t’ing he seem for care

  An’ den he is feel it more satisfy,

Dat t’ing, my dear frien’, was for keel some bear,

  If he’ll do dat wan tam, he’s prepare for die.

Philéas say he know w’ere some blue berree

  Mak’ very good place for de bear have fonne,

So we start nex’ day on morning earlee,

  An’ M’sieu Smit’ go wit’ hees elephan’ gun.

Wan woman sauvage she is come be dere,

  Mebbe want some blue berree mak’ some pie,

Dat’ Englishman shoot, he is t’ink she’s bear,

  An’ de woman she’s holler, “Mon Dieu, I’m die!”

M’sieu Smit’ he don’t do no harm, becos

  He is shake hese’f w’en he shoot dat squaw,

But scare he pay hunder’ dollar cos’

  For keel some sauvage on de “close” saison.

T’ree day affer dat, we start out on lac

  For ketch on de water wan Cariboo,

But win’ she blow strong, an’ we can’t get back

  Till we t’row ourse’f out on dat canoe.

We t’ink M’sieu Smit’ he is sure be drown,

  Leetle w’ile we can’t see heem again no more,

An’ den he’s come up from de place go down

  An’ jomp on hees bat’ tubbe an’ try go shore.

W’en he’s pass on de bat’, he say “Hooraw!”

  An’ commence right away for mak’ some sing;

I’m sure you can hear heem ten-twelve arpent

  ’Bout “Brittanie, she alway’ mus’ boss somet’ing.”

Dat’s all I will tole you jus’ now, my frien’;

  I s’pose you don’t know de more fonny case,

But if Englishman go on wood again

  I’ll have more storee w’en you pass my place.

WAS workin’ away on de farm dere, wan morning not long ago,

Feexin’ de fence for winter—’cos dat’s w’ere we got de snow!

W’en Jeremie Plouffe, ma neighbor, come over an’ spik wit’ me,

“Antoine, you will come on de city, for hear Ma-dam All-ba-nee?”

“W’at you mean?” I was sayin’ right off, me, “Some woman was mak’ de speech,

Or girl on de Hooraw Circus, doin’ high kick an’ screech?”

“Non—non,” he is spikin’—“Excuse me, dat’s be Ma-dam All-ba-nee

Was leevin’ down here on de contree, two mile ’noder side Chambly.

“She’s jus’ comin’ over from Englan’, on steamboat arrive Kebeck,

Singin’ on Lunnon, an’ Paree, an’ havin’ beeg tam, I expec’,

But no matter de moche she enjoy it, for travel all roun’ de worl’,

Somet’ing on de heart bring her back here, for she was de Chambly girl.

“She never do not’ing but singin’ an’ makin, de beeg grande tour

An’ travel on summer an’ winter, so mus’ be de firs’ class for sure!

Ev’ryboddy I’m t’inkin’ was know her, an’ I also hear ’noder t’ing,

She’s frien’ on La Reine Victoria an’ show her de way to sing!”

“Wall,” I say, “you’re sure she is Chambly, w’at you call Ma-dam All-ba-nee?

Don’t know me dat nam’ on de Canton—I hope you’re not fool wit’ me?”

An’ he say, “Lajeunesse, dey was call her, before she is come mariée,

But she’s takin’ de nam’ of her husban’—I s’pose dat’s de only way.”

“C’est bon, mon ami,” I was say me, “if I get t’roo de fence nex’ day

An’ she don’t want too moche on de monee, den mebbe I see her play.”

So I finish dat job on to-morrow, Jeremie he was helpin’ me too,

An’ I say, “Len’ me t’ree dollar quickly for mak’ de voyage wit’ you.”

Correc’—so we’re startin’ nex’ morning, an’ arrive Montreal all right,

Buy dollar tiquette on de bureau, an’ pass on de hall dat night.

Beeg crowd, wall! I bet you was dere too, all dress on some fancy dress,

De lady, I don’t say not’ing, but man’s all w’ite shirt an’ no ves’.

Don’t matter, w’en ban’ dey be ready, de fore man strek out wit’ hees steek,

An’ fiddle an’ ev’ryt’ing else too, begin for play up de musique.

It’s fonny t’ing too dey was playin’ don’t lak it mese’f at all,

I rader be lissen some jeeg, me, or w’at you call “Affer de ball.”

An’ I’m not feelin’ very surprise den, w’en de crowd holler out, “Encore,”

For mak’ all dem feller commencin’ an’ try leetle piece some more,

’Twas better wan’ too, I be t’inkin’, but slow lak you’re goin’ to die,

All de sam’, noboddy say not’ing, dat mean dey was satisfy.

Affer dat come de Grande piano, lak we got on Chambly Hotel,

She’s nice lookin’ girl was play dat, so of course she’s go off purty well,

Den feller he’s ronne out an’ sing some, it’s all about very fine moon,

Dat shine on Canal, ev’ry night too, I’m sorry I don’t know de tune.

Nex’ t’ing I commence get excite, me, for I don’t see no great Ma-dam yet,

Too bad I was los’ all dat monee, an’ too late for de raffle tiquette!

W’en jus’ as I feel very sorry, for come all de way from Chambly,

Jeremie he was w’isper, “Tiens, Tiens, prenez garde, she’s comin’ Ma-dam All-ba-nee!”

Ev’ryboddy seem glad w’en dey see her, come walkin’ right down de platform,

An’ way dey mak’ noise on de han’ den, w’y! it’s jus’ lak de beeg tonder storm!

I’ll never see not’ing lak dat, me, no matter I travel de worl’,

An’ Ma-dam, you t’ink it was scare her? Non, she laugh lak de Chambly girl!

Dere was young feller comin’ behin’ her, walk nice, comme un Cavalier,

An’ before All-ba-nee she is ready an’ piano get startin’ for play,

De feller commence wit’ hees singin’ more stronger dan all de res’,

I t’ink he’s got very bad manner, know not’ing at all politesse.

Ma-dam, I s’pose she get mad den, an’ before anyboddy can spik,

She settle right down for mak’ sing too, an’ purty soon ketch heem up quick,

Den she’s kip it on gainin’ an’ gainin’, till de song it is tout finis,

An’ w’en she is beatin’ dat feller, Bagosh! I am proud Chambly!

I’m not very sorry at all, me, w’en de feller was ronnin’ away,

An’ man he’s come out wit’ de piccolo, an’ start heem right off for play,

For it’s kin’ de musique I be fancy, Jeremie he is lak it also,

An’ wan de bes’ t’ing on dat ev’ning is man wit’ de piccolo!

Den mebbe ten minute is passin’, Ma-dam she is comin’ encore,

Dis tam all alone on de platform, dat feller don’t show up no more,

An’ w’en she start off on de singin’ Jeremie say, “Antoine, dat’s Français,”

Dis give us more pleasure, I tole you, ’cos w’y? We’re de pure Canayen!

Dat song I will never forget me, ’twas song of de leetle bird,

W’en he’s fly from it’s nes’ on de tree top, ’fore res’ of de worl’ get stirred,

Ma-dam she was tole us about it, den start off so quiet an’ low,

An’ sing lak de bird on de morning, de poor leetle small oiseau.

I ’member wan tam I be sleepin’ jus’ onder some beeg pine tree

An’ song of de robin wak’ me, but robin he don’t see me,

Dere’s not’ing for scarin’ dat bird dere, he’s feel all alone on de worl’,

Wall! Ma-dam she mus’ lissen lak dat too, w’en she was de Chambly girl!

’Cos how could she sing dat nice chanson, de sam’ as de bird I was hear,

Till I see it de maple an’ pine tree an’ Richelieu ronnin’ near,

Again I’m de leetle feller, lak young colt upon de spring

Dat’s jus’ on de way I was feel, me, w’en Madam All-ba-nee is sing!

An’ affer de song it is finish, an’ crowd is mak’ noise wit’ its han’,

I s’pose dey be t’inkin’ I’m crazy, dat mebbe I don’t onderstan’,

’Cos I’m set on de chair very quiet, mese’f an’ poor Jeremie,

An’ I see dat hees eye it was cry too, jus’ sam’ way it go wit’ me.

Dere’s rosebush outside on our garden, ev’ry spring it has got new nes’,

But only wan bluebird is buil’ dere, I know her from all de res’,

An’ no matter de far she be flyin’ away on de winter tam,

Back to her own leetle rosebush she’s comin’ dere jus’ de sam’.

We’re not de beeg place on our Canton, mebbe cole on de winter, too,

But de heart’s “Canayen” on our body, an’ dat’s warm enough for true!

An’ w’en All-ba-nee was got lonesome for travel all roun’ de worl’

I hope she’ll come home, lak de bluebird an’ again be de Chambly girl!

YOU ’member de ole log-camp, Johnnie, up on de Cheval Gris,

W’ere we work so hard all winter, long ago you an’ me?

Dere was fourteen man on de gang, den, all from our own paroisse,

An’ only wan lef’ dem feller is ourse’f an’ Pierre Laframboise.

But Pierre can’t see on de eye, Johnnie, I t’ink it’s no good at all!

An’ it wasn’t for not’ing you’re gettin’ rheumateez on de leg las’ fall!

I t’ink it’s no use waitin’, for neider can come wit’ me,

So alone I mak’ leetle visit dat camp on de Cheval Gris.

An’ if only you see it, Johnnie, an’ change dere was all aroun’,

Ev’ryt’ing gone but de timber an’ dat is all fallin’ down;

No sign of portage by de reever w’ere man dey was place canoe,

W’y, Johnnie, I’m cry lak de bebé, an’ I’m glad you don’t come, mon vieux!

But strange t’ing’s happen me dere, Johnnie, mebbe I go asleep,

As I lissen de song of de rapide, as pas’ de Longue Soo she sweep,

Ma head she go biz-z-z lak de sawmeel, I don’t know w’at’s wrong wit’ me,

But firs’ t’ing I don’t know not’ing, an’ den w’at you t’ink I see?

Yourse’f an’ res’ of de boy, Johnnie, by light of de coal oil lamp,

An’ you’re singin’ an’ tolin’ story, sittin aroun’ de camp,

We hear de win’ on de chimley, an’ we know it was beeg, beeg storm,

But ole box stove she is roarin’, an’ camp’s feelin’ nice an’ warm.

I t’ink you’re on boar’ of de raf’, Johnnie, near head of Rivière du Loup,

W’en LeRoy an’ young Patsy Kelly get drown comin’ down de Soo,

Wall! I see me dem very same feller, jus’ lak you see me to-day,

Playin’ dat game dey call checker, de game dey was play alway!

An’ Louis Charette asleep, Johnnie, wit’ hees back up agen de wall,

Makin’ soche noise wit’ hees nose, dat you t’ink it was moose on de fall,

I s’pose he’s de mos’ fattes’ man dere ’cept mebbe Bateese La Rue,

But if I mak fonne on poor Louis, I know he was good boy too!

W’at you do over dere on your bunk, Johnnie, lightin’ dem allumettes,

Are you shame ’cos de girl she write you, is dat de las’ wan you get?

It’s fonny you can’t do widout it ev’ry tam you was goin’ bed,

W’y readin’ dat letter so offen, you mus’ have it all on de head!

Dat’s de very sam’ letter, Johnnie, was comin’ t’ree mont’ ago,

I t’ink I know somet’ing about it, ’cos I fin’ it wan day on de snow.

An’ I see on de foot dat letter, Philomene she is do lak dis: ⁑ ⁑ ⁑

I’m not very moche on de school, me, but I t’ink dat was mean de kiss.

Wall! nobody’s kickin’ de row, Johnnie, an’ if allumettes’ fini,

Put Philomene off on your pocket, an’ sing leetle song wit’ me;

For don’t matter de hard you be workin’ toujours you’re un bon garçon,

An’ nobody sing lak our Johnnie, Kebeck to de Mattawa!

An’ it’s den you be let her go, Johnnie, till roof she was mos’ cave in,

An’ if dere’s firs’ prize on de singin’, Bagosh! you’re de man can win!

Affer dat come fidelle of Joe Pilon, an’ he’s feller can make it play,

So we’re clearin’ de floor right off den, for have leetle small danser.

An’ w’en dance she was tout finis, Johnnie, I go de sam’ bunk wit’ you

W’ere we sleep lak two broder, an’ dream of de girl on Rivière du Loup,

Very nice ontil somebody call me, it soun’ lak de boss Pelang,

“Leve toi, Jeremie ma young feller, or else you’ll be late on de gang.”

An’ den I am wak’ up, Johnnie, an’ w’ere do you t’ink I be?

Dere was de wood an’ mountain, dere was de Cheval Gris,

But w’ere is de boy an’ musique I hear only w’ile ago?

Gone lak de flower las’ summer, gone lak de winter snow!

An’ de young man was bring me up, Johnnie, dat’s son of ma boy Maxime,

Say, “Gran’fader, w’at is de matter, you havin’ de bad, bad dream?

Come look on your face on de well dere, it’s w’ite lak I never see,

Mebbe ’twas better you’re stayin’, an’ not go along wit’ me.”

An’ w’en I look down de well, Johnnie, an’ see de ole feller dere,

I say on mese’f “you be makin’ fou Jeremie Chateauvert,

For t’ink you’re garçon agen. Ha! ha! jus’ ’cos you are close de eye,

An’ only commence for leevin’ w’en you’re ready almos’ for die!”

Ah! dat’s how de young day pass, Johnnie, purty moche lak de t’ing I see,

Sometam dey be las’ leetle longer, sam’ as wit’ you an’ me,

But no matter de ole we’re leevin’, de tam she must come some day,

W’en boss on de place above, Johnnie, he’s callin’ us all away.

I’m glad I was go on de camp, Johnnie, I t’ink it will do me good,

Mebbe it’s las’ tam too, for sure, I’ll never pass on de wood,

For I don’t expec’ moche longer ole Jeremie will be lef’,

But about w’at I see dat day, Johnnie, tole nobody but yourse’f.

DAT’S very cole an’ stormy night on Village St. Mathieu,

W’en ev’ry wan he’s go couché, an’ dog was quiet, too—

Young Dominique is start heem out see Emmeline Gourdon,

Was leevin’ on her fader’s place, Maxime de Forgeron.

Poor Dominique he’s lak dat girl, an’ love her mos’ de tam,

An’ she was mak’ de promise—sure—some day she be his famme,

But she have worse ole fader dat’s never on de worl’,

Was swear onless he’s riche lak diable, no feller’s get hees girl.

He’s mak’ it plaintee fuss about hees daughter Emmeline,

Dat’s mebbe nice girl, too, but den, Mon Dieu, she’s not de queen!

An’ w’en de young man’s come aroun’ for spark it on de door,

An’ hear de ole man swear “Baptême!” he’s never come no more.

Young Dominique he’s sam’ de res’,—was scare for ole Maxime,

He don’t lak risk hese’f too moche for chances seein’ heem,

Dat’s only stormy night he come, so dark you cannot see,

An’ dat’s de reason w’y also, he’s climb de gallerie.

De girl she’s waitin’ dere for heem—don’t care about de rain,

So glad for see young Dominique he’s comin’ back again,

Dey bote forget de ole Maxime, an’ mak de embrasser

An’ affer dey was finish dat, poor Dominique is say—

“Good-bye, dear Emmeline, good-bye; I’m goin’ very soon,

For you I got no better chance, dan feller on de moon—

It’s all de fault your fader, too, dat I be go away,

He’s got no use for me at all—I see dat ev’ry day.

“He’s never meet me on de road but he is say ‘Sapré!’

An’ if he ketch me on de house I’m scare he’s killin’ me,

So I mus’ lef’ ole St. Mathieu, for work on ’noder place,

An’ till I mak de beeg for-tune, you never see ma face.”

Den Emmeline say “Dominique, ma love you’ll alway be

An’ if you kiss me two, t’ree tam I’ll not tole noboddy—

But prenez garde ma fader, please, I know he’s gettin’ ole—

All sam’ he offen walk de house upon de stockin’ sole.

“Good-bye, good-bye, cher Dominique! I know you will be true,

I don’t want no riche feller me, ma heart she go wit’ you,”

Dat’s very quick he’s kiss her den, before de fader come,

But don’t get too moche pleasurement—so ’fraid de ole Bonhomme.

Wall! jus’ about dey’re half way t’roo wit all dat love beez-nesse

Emmeline say, “Dominique, w’at for you’re scare lak all de res’?

Don’t see mese’f moche danger now de ole man come aroun’,”

W’en minute affer dat, dere’s noise, lak’ house she’s fallin’ down.

Den Emmeline she holler “Fire! will no wan come for me?”

An’ Dominique is jomp so high, near bus’ de gallerie,—

“Help! help! right off,” somebody shout, “I’m killin’ on ma place,

It’s all de fault ma daughter, too, dat girl she’s ma disgrace.”

He’s kip it up long tam lak dat, but not hard tellin’ now,

W’at’s all de noise upon de house—who’s kick heem up de row?

It seem Bonhomme was sneak aroun’ upon de stockin’ sole,

An’ firs’ t’ing den de ole man walk right t’roo de stove pipe hole.

W’en Dominique is see heem dere, wit’ wan leg hang below,

An’ ’noder leg straight out above, he’s glad for ketch heem so—

De ole man can’t do not’ing, den, but swear and ax for w’y

Noboddy tak’ heem out dat hole before he’s comin’ die.

Den Dominique he spik lak dis, “Mon cher M’sieur Gourdon

I’m not riche city feller, me, I’m only habitant,

But I was love more I can tole your daughter Emmeline,

An’ if I marry on dat girl, Bagosh! she’s lak de Queen.

“I want you mak de promise now, before it’s come too late,

An’ I mus’ tole you dis also, dere’s not moche tam for wait.

Your foot she’s hangin’ down so low, I’m ’fraid she ketch de cole,

Wall! if you give me Emmeline, I pull you out de hole.”

Dat mak’ de ole man swear more hard he never swear before,

An’ wit’ de foot he’s got above, he’s kick it on de floor,

“Non, non,” he say “Sapré tonnerre! she never marry you,

An’ if you don’t look out you get de jail on St. Mathieu.”

“Correc’,” young Dominique is say, “mebbede jail’s tight place,

But you got wan small corner, too, I see it on de face,

So if you don’t lak geev de girl on wan poor habitant,

Dat’s be mese’f, I say, Bonsoir, mon cher M’sieur Gourdon.”

“Come back, come back,” Maxime is shout—“I promise you de girl,

I never see no wan lak you—no never on de worl’!

It’s not de nice trick you was play on man dat’s gettin’ ole,

But do jus’ w’at you lak, so long you pull me out de hole.”

“Hooraw! Hooraw!” Den Dominique is pull heem out tout suite

An’ Emmeline she’s helpin’ too for place heem on de feet,

An’ affer dat de ole man’s tak’ de young peep down de stair,

W’ere he is go couché right off, an’ dey go on parloir.

Nex’ Sunday morning dey was call by M’sieur le Curé

Get marry soon, an’ ole Maxime geev Emmeline away;

Den affer dat dey settle down lak habitant is do,

An’ have de mos’ fine familee on Village St. Mathieu.

O LEETLE bird dat’s come to us w’en stormy win’ she’s blowin’,

  An’ ev’ry fiel’ an’ mountain top is cover wit’ de snow,

How far from home you’re flyin’, noboddy’s never knowin’

  For spen’ wit’ us de winter tam, mon cher petit oiseau!

We alway know you’re comin’, w’en we hear de firs’ beeg storm,

  A sweepin’ from de sky above, an’ screamin’ as she go—

Can tell you’re safe inside it, w’ere you’re keepin’ nice an’ warm,

  But no wan’s never see you dere, mon cher petit oiseau!

Was it ’way behin’ de mountain, dat de nort’ win’ ketch you sleepin’

  Mebbe on your leetle nes’ too, an’ before de wing she grow,

Lif’ you up an’ bring you dat way, till some morning fin’ you peepin’

  Out of new nes’ on de snow dreef, mon pauv’ petit oiseau!

All de wood is full on summer, wit’ de many bird is sing dere,

  Dey mus’ offen know each oder, mebbe mak’ de frien’ also,

But w’en you was come on winter, never seein’ wan strange wing dere

  Was it mak’ you feelin’ lonesome, mon pauv’ petit oiseau?

Plaintee bird is alway hidin’ on some place no wan can fin’ dem,

  But ma leetle bird of winter, dat was not de way you go—

For de chil’ren on de roadside, you don’t seem to care for min’ dem

  W’en dey pass on way to schoolhouse, mon cher petit oiseau!

No wan say you sing lak robin, but you got no tam for singin’

  So busy it was keepin’ you get breakfas’ on de snow,

But de small note you was geev us, w’en it join de sleigh bell ringin’

  Mak’ de true Canadian music, mon cher petit oiseau!

O de long an’ lonesome winter, if you’re never comin’ near us,

  If we miss you on de roadside, an’ on all de place below!

But le bon Dieu he will sen’ you t’roo de storm again for cheer us,

  W’en we mos’ was need you here too, mon cher petit oiseau!

I READ on de paper mos’ ev’ry day, all about Jubilee

An’ grande procession movin’ along, an’ passin’ across de sea,

Dat’s chil’ren of Queen Victoriaw comin’ from far away

For tole Madame w’at dey t’ink of her, an’ wishin’ her bonne santé.

An’ if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere

Wit’ res’ of de worl’ for shout “Hooraw” an’ t’row hees cap on de air,

Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w’y we feel lak de oder do,

For if I’m only poor habitant, I’m not on de sapré fou.

Of course w’en we t’ink it de firs’ go off, I know very strange it seem

For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L’Ancien Régime.

From day w’en de voyageurs come out all de way from ole St. Malo,

Flyin’ dat flag from de mas’ above, an’ long affer dat also.

De English fight wit’ de Frenchman den over de whole contree,

Down by de reever, off on de wood, an’ out on de beeg, beeg sea,

Killin’ an’ shootin’, an’ raisin’ row, half tam dey don’t know w’at for,

W’en it’s jus’ as easy get settle down, not makin’ de crazy war.

Sometam’ dey be quiet for leetle w’ile, you t’ink dey don’t fight no more,

An’ den w’en dey’re feelin’ all right agen. Bang! jus’ lak’ she was before.

Very offen we’re beatin’ dem on de fight, sometam’ dey can beat us, too,

But no feller’s scare on de ’noder man, an’ bote got enough to do.

An’ all de long year she be go lak’ dat, we never was know de peace,

Not’ing but war from de wes’ contree down to de St. Maurice;

Till de las’ fight’s comin’ on Canadaw, an’ brave Generale Montcalm

Die lak’ a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham.

Dat’s finish it all, an’ de English King is axin’ us stayin’ dere

W’ere we have sam’ right as de ’noder peep comin’ from Angleterre.

Long tam’ for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry,

But de new step-moder she’s good an’ kin’, an’ it’s all right bimeby.

If de moder come dead w’en you’re small garçon leavin’ you dere alone,

Wit’ nobody watchin’ for fear you fall, an’ hurt youse’f on de stone,

An’ ’noder good woman she tak’ your han’ de sam’ your own moder do,

Is it right you don’t call her moder, is it right you don’t love her too?

Bâ non, an’ dat was de way we feel, w’en de ole Regime’s no more,

An’ de new wan come, but don’t change moche, w’y it’s jus’ lak’ it be before.

Spikin’ Français lak’ we alway do, an’ de English dey mak no fuss,

An’ our law de sam’, wall, I don’t know me, ’twas better mebbe for us.

So de sam’ as two broder we settle down, leevin’ dere han’ in han’,

Knowin’ each oder, we lak’ each oder, de French an’ de Englishman,

For it’s curi’s t’ing on dis worl’, I’m sure you see it agen an’ agen,

Dat offen de mos’ worse ennemi, he’s comin’ de bes’, bes’ frien’.

So we’re kipin’ so quiet long affer dat, w’en las’ of de fightin’s done,

Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun;

But Yankee man’s smart, all de worl’ know dat, so he’s firs’ fin’ mistak’ wan day

W’en he’s try cross de line, fusil on hee’s han’, near place dey call Chateaugay.

Of course it’s bad t’ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere

Wit’ habitant farmer from down below, an’ two honder Voltigeurs,

Dem feller come off de State, I s’pose, was fightin’ so hard dey can

But de blue coat sojer he don’t get kill, is de locky Yankee man!

Since den w’en dey’re comin’ on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem well,

For dey’re spennin’ de monee lak’ gentilhommes, an’ stay on de bes’ hotel,

Den “Bienvenu,” we will spik dem, an’ “Come back agen nex’ week,

So long you was kip on de quiet an’ don’t talk de politique!”

Yass, dat is de way Victoriaw fin’ us dis jubilee,

Sometam’ we mak’ fuss about not’ing, but it’s all on de familee,

An’ w’enever dere’s danger roun’ her, no matter on sea or lan’,

She’ll find that les Canayens can fight de sam’ as bes’ Englishman.

An’ onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly—

Wit’ deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfyleev an’ die.

Dat’s de message our fader geev us w’en dey’re fallin’ on Chateaugay,

An’ de flag was kipin’ dem safe den, dat’s de wan we will kip alway!

OLE Docteur Fiset of Saint Anicet,

  Sapré tonnerre! he was leev long tam!

I’m sure he’s got ninety year or so,

Beat all on de Parish ’cept Pierre Courteau,

  An’ day affer day he work all de sam’.

Dat house on de hill, you can see it still,

  She’s sam’ place he buil’ de firs’ tam’ he come

Behin’ it dere’s one leetle small jardin

Got plaintee de bes’ tabac Canayen

  Wit’ fameuse apple an’ beeg blue plum.

An’ dey’re all right dere, for de small boy’s scare

  No matter de apple look nice an’ red,

For de small boy know if he’s stealin’ some

Den Docteur Fiset on dark night he come,

  An’ cut leetle feller right off hees head!

But w’en dey was rap, an’ tak’ off de cap,

  M’sieu’ le Docteur he will say “Entrez,”

Den all de boy pass on jardin behin’

W’ere dey eat mos’ ev’ryt’ing good dey fin’,

  Till dey can’t go on school nearly two, t’ree day.

But Docteur Fiset, not moche fonne he get,

  Drivin’ all over de whole contree,

If de road she’s bad, if de road she’s good,

W’en ev’ryt’ing’s drown on de Spring-tam flood,

  An’ workin’ for not’ing half tam’ mebbe!

Let her rain or snow, all he want to know

  Is jus’ if anywan’s feelin’ sick,

For Docteur Fiset’s de ole fashion kin’

Doin’ good was de only t’ing on hees min’

  So he got no use for de politique.

An’ he’s careful too, ’cos firs’ t’ing he do,

  For fear dere was danger some fever case,

Is tak’ w’en he’s come leetle w’isky chaud,

Den ’noder wan too jus’ before he go,

  He’s so scare carry fever aroun’ de place!

On nice summer day w’en we’re makin’ hay

  Dere’s not’ing more pleasant for us I’m sure

Dan see de ole man come joggin’ along,

Alway singin’ some leetle song,

  An’ hear heem say “Tiens, mes amis, Bon jour!”

An’ w’en de cole rain was commence again

  An’ we’re sittin’ at home on some warm cornerre,

If we hear de buggy an’ see de light

Tearin’ along t’roo de black, black night,

  We know right off dat’s de ole Docteur!

An’ he’s smart horse sure, w’at he call “Faubourg,”

  Ev’ry place on de Parish he know dem all,

An’ you ought to see de nice way he go

For fear he’s upsettin’ upon de snow,

  W’en ole man’s asleep on de cariole!

I ’member w’en poor Hormisdas Couture

  Get sick on hees place twenty mile away

An’ hees boy Ovide he was come “Raquette”

W’at you call “Snowshoe,” for Docteur Fiset,

  An’ Docteur he start wit’ hees horse an’ sleigh.

All de night before, de beeg storm she roar,

  An’ mos’ of de day it’s de sam’ also,

De drif’ was pilin’ up ten feet high

You can’t see not’ing dis side de sky,

  Not’ing but wan avalanche of snow.

I’m hearin’ de bell w’en I go on de well

  For water de cattle on barn close by,

But I only ketch sight of hees cheval blanc

An’ hees coonskin coat wit’ de capuchon

  An’ de storm tak’ heem off, jus’ de sam’ he fly.

Mus’ be le Bon Dieu dat is help him t’roo,

  Ole Docteur Fiset an’ hees horse “Faubourg,”

’Twas somet’ing for splain-me, wall I don’t care,

But somehow or ’noder he’s gettin’ dere,

  An’ save de life Hormisdas Couture.

But it’s sam’ alway, lak’ dat ev’ry day,

  He never was spare hese’f pour nous autres,

He don’t mak’ moche monee, Docteur Fiset,

An’ offen de only t’ing he was get

  Is de prayer of poor man, an’ wan bag of oat.

Wall! Docteur Fiset of Saint Anicet

  He is not dead yet! an’ I’m purty sure

If you’re passin’ dat place about ten year more

You will see heem go roun’ lak he go before

  Wit’ de ole cariole an’ hees horse “Faubourg!”

JOHNNIE Courteau of de mountain

Johnnie Courteau of de hill

Dat was de boy can shoot de gun

Dat was de boy can jomp an’ run

An’ it’s not very offen you ketch heem still

                              Johnnie Courteau!

Ax dem along de reever

Ax dem along de shore

Who was de mos’ bes’ fightin’ man

From Managance to Shaw-in-i-gan?

De place w’ere de great beeg rapide roar,

                              Johnnie Courteau!

Sam’ t’ing on ev’ry shaintee

Up on de Mekinac

Who was de man can walk de log,

W’en w’ole of de reever she’s black wit’ fog

An’ carry de beeges’ load on hees back?

                              Johnnie Courteau!

On de rapide you want to see heem

If de raf’ she’s swingin’ roun’

An’ he’s yellin’ “Hooraw Bateese! good man!”

W’y de oar come double on hees han’

W’en he’s makin’ dat raf’ go flyin’ down

                              Johnnie Courteau!

An’ Tête de Boule chief can tole you

De feller w’at save hees life

W’en beeg moose ketch heem up a tree

Who’s shootin’ dat moose on de head, sapree!

An’ den run off wit’ hees Injun wife?

                              Johnnie Courteau!

An’ he only have pike pole wit’ heem

On Lac a la Tortue

W’en he meet de bear comin’ down de hill

But de bear very soon is get hees fill!

An’ he sole dat skin for ten dollar too,

                              Johnnie Courteau!

Oh he never was scare for not’ing

Lak de ole coureurs de bois,

But w’en he’s gettin’ hees winter pay

De bes’ t’ing sure is kip out de way

For he’s goin’ right off on de Hip Hooraw!

                              Johnnie Courteau!

Den pullin’ hees sash aroun’ heem

He dance on hees botte sauvage

An’ shout “All aboar’ if you want to fight!”

Wall! you never can see de finer sight

W’en he go lak dat on de w’ole village!

                              Johnnie Courteau!

But Johnnie Courteau get marry

On Philomene Beaurepaire

She’s nice leetle girl was run de school

On w’at you call Parish of Sainte Ursule

An’ he see her off on de pique-nique dere

                              Johnnie Courteau!

Den somet’ing come over Johnnie

W’en he marry on Philomene

For he stay on de farm de w’ole year roun’

He chop de wood an’ he plough de groun’

An’ he’s quieter feller was never seen,

                              Johnnie Courteau!

An’ ev’ry wan feel astonish

From La Tuque to Shaw-in-i-gan

W’en dey hear de news was goin’ aroun’

Along on de reever up an’ down

How wan leetle woman boss dat beeg man

                              Johnnie Courteau!

He never come out on de evening

No matter de hard we try

’Cos he stay on de kitchen an’ sing hees song

        “A la claire fontaine,

        M’en allant promener,

        J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle

        Que je m’y suis baigner!

        Lui y’a longtemps que je t’aime

        Jamais je ne t’oublierai.”

Rockin’ de cradle de w’ole night long

Till baby’s asleep on de sweet bimeby

                            Johnnie Courteau!

An’ de house, wall! I wish you see it

De place she’s so nice an’ clean

Mus’ wipe your foot on de outside door,

You’re dead man sure if you spit on de floor,

An’ he never say not’ing on Philomene,

                            Johnnie Courteau!

An’ Philomene watch de monee

An’ put it all safe away

On very good place; I dunno w’ere

But anyhow nobody see it dere

So she’s buyin’ new farm de noder day

                           Madame Courteau!

DE corduroy road go bompety bomp,

De corduroy road go jompety jomp,

An’ he’s takin’ beeg chances upset hees load

De horse dat’ll trot on de corduroy road.

Of course it’s purty rough, but it’s handy t’ing enough

An’ dey mak’ it wit’ de log all jine togeder

W’en dey strek de swampy groun’ w’ere de water hang aroun’

Or passin’ by some tough ole beaver medder.

But it’s not macadamize, so if you’re only wise

You will tak’ your tam an’ never min’ de worry

For de corduroy is bad, an’ will mak’ you plaintee mad

By de way de buggy jomp, in case you hurry.

An’ I’m sure you don’t expec’ leetle Victorine Leveque

She was knowin’ moche at all about dem places,

’Cos she’s never dere before, till young Zephirin Madore

He was takin’ her away for see de races.

O, I wish you see her den, dat’s before she marry, w’en

She’s de fines’ on de lan’ but no use talkin’

I can bet you w’at you lak, if you meet her you look back

Jus’ to watch de fancy way dat girl is walkin’.

Yass de leetle Victorine was de nices’ girl between

De town of Yamachiche an’ Maskinongé,

But she’s stuck up an’ she’s proud, an’ you’ll never count de crowd

Of de boy she geev’ it w’at dey call de congé.

Ah! de moder spoil her sure, for even Joe D’Amour

W’en he’s ready nearly ev’ry t’ing to geev her

If she mak’ de mariée, only say, “please go away”

An’ he’s riches habitant along de reever.

Zephirin he try it too, an’ he’s workin’ somet’ing new

For he’s makin’ de ole woman many presen’

Prize package on de train, umbrella for de rain

But she’s grompy all de tam, an’ never pleasan’.

Wall, w’en he ax Ma-dame tak’ de girl away dat tam

See dem races on Sorel wit’ all de trotter

De moder say “All right if you bring her home to-night

Before de cow’s milk, I let her go, ma daughter.”

So Victorine she go wit’ Zephirin her beau

On de yankee buggy mak’ it on St. Bruno

An’ w’en dey pass hotel on de middle of Sorel

Dey’re puttin’ on de beeges’ style dat you know.

Wall! dey got some good horse dere, but Zephirin don’t care

He’s back it up hees own paroisse, ba golly,

An’ he mak’ it t’ree doll-arre w’en Maskinongé Star

On de two mile heat was beatin’ Sorel Molly.

Victorine don’t min’ at all, till de “free for all” dey call

Dat’s de las’ race dey was run before de snow fly

Den she say “I t’ink de cow mus’ be gettin’ home soon now

An’ you know it’s only clock ole woman go by.

“An’ if we’re comin’ late w’en de cow pass on de gate

You’ll be sorry if you hear de way she talk dere,

So w’en I see de race on Sorel or any place

Affer dis, you may be sure I got to walk dere.”

Den he laugh dat Zephirin, an’ he say “Your poor mama

I know de pile she t’ink about her daughter

So we’ll tak’ de short road back on de corduroy race track

Don’t matter if we got to sweem de water.”

No wonder he is smile till you hear heem half a mile

For dat morning he was tole hees leetle broder

Let de cattle out de gate, so he know it’s purty late

By de tam dem cow was findin’ out each oder.

So along de corduroy de young girl an’ de boy

Dey was kipin’ up a joggin’ nice an’ steady

It isn’t heavy load, an’ Guillaume he know de road

For many tam he’s been dat way already.

But de girl she fin’ it slow, so she ax de boy to go

Somet’ing better dan a mile on fifteen minute

An’ he’s touch heem up Guillaume; so dat horse he lay for home

An’ de nex’ t’ing Victorine she know she’s in it.

“O, pull him in,” she yell, “for even on Sorel

I am sure I never see de quicker racer,”

But it’s leetle bit too late, for de horse is get hees gait

An’ de worse of all ba gosh! Guillaume’s a pacer.

See hees tail upon de air, no wonder she was scare

But she hang on lak de winter on T’ree Reever.

Cryin’ out—“please hol’ me tight, or I’m comin dead to-night

An’ ma poor ole moder dear, I got to leave her.”

Wit’ her arm aroun’ hees wais’; she was doin’ it in case

She bus’ her head, or keel herse’f, it’s not so easy sayin’

Dey was comin’ on de jomp t’roo dat dam ole beaver swamp

An’ meet de crowd is lookin’ for dem cow was go a-strayin’.

Den she’s cryin’, Victorine, for she’s knowin’ w’at it mean

De parish dey was talkin’ firse chances dey be gettin’,

But no sooner dat young man stop de horse, he tak’ her han’

An’ w’isper “never min’, ma chere, won’t do no good a-frettin’.”

Non! she isn’t cryin’ long, for he tole her it was wrong,

She’s sure he save her life too, or she was moche mistaken,

An’ de ole Ma-dame Leveque also kiss heem on de neck

An’ quickly affer dat Hooraw! de man an’ wife dey’re makin’.

DERE’S no voyageur on de reever never run hees canoe d’ecorce

T’roo de roar an’ de rush of de rapide, w’ere it jump lak a beeg w’ite horse,

Dere’s no hunter man on de prairie, never wear w’at you call racquette

Can beat leetle Fader O’Hara, de Curé of Calumette.

Hees fader is full-blooded Irish, an’ hees moder is pure Canayenne,

Not offen dat stock go togedder, but she’s fine combination ma frien’

For de Irish he’s full of de devil, an’ de French dey got savoir faire,

Dat’s mak’ it de very good balance an’ tak’ you mos’ ev’ry w’ere.

But dere’s wan t’ing de Curé wont stan’ it; mak’ fun on de Irlandais

An’ of course on de French we say not’ing, ’cos de parish she’s all Canayen,

Den you see on account of de moder, he can’t spik hese’f very moche,

So de ole joke she’s all out of fashion, an’ wan of dem t’ing we don’t touch.

Wall! wan of dat kin’ is de Curé, but w’en he be comin’ our place

De peop’ on de parish all w’isper, “How young he was look on hees face;

Too bad if de wedder she keel heem de firse tam he got leetle wet,

An’ de Bishop might sen’ beeger Curé, for it’s purty tough place, Calumette!”

Ha! ha! how I wish I was dere, me, w’en he go on de mission call

On de shaintee camp way up de reever, drivin’ hees own cariole,

An’ he meet blaggar’ feller been drinkin’, jus’ enough mak’ heem ack lak fou,

Joe Vadeboncoeur, dey was call heem, an’ he’s purty beeg feller too!

Mebbe Joe he don’t know it’s de Curé, so he’s hollerin’, “Get out de way,

If you don’t geev me whole of de roadside, sapree! you go off on de sleigh.”

But de Curé he never say not’ing, jus’ poule on de line leetle bit,

An’ w’en Joe try for kip heem hees promise, hees nose it get badly hit.

Maudit! he was strong leetle Curé, an’ he go for Jo-zeph en masse

An’ w’en he is mak’ it de finish, poor Joe isn’t feel it firse class,

So nex’ tam de Curé he’s goin’ for visit de shaintee encore

Of course he was mak’ beeges’ mission never see on dat place before.

An’ he know more, I’m sure dan de lawyer, an’ dere’s many poor habitant

Is glad for see Fader O’Hara, an’ ax w’at he t’ink of de law

W’en dey get leetle troub’ wit’ each oder, an’ don’t know de bes’ t’ing to do,

Dat’s makin’ dem save plaintee monee, an’ kip de good neighbor too.

But w’en we fin’ out how he paddle till canoe she was nearly fly

An’ travel racquette on de winter, w’en snow-dreef is pilin’ up high

For visit some poor man or woman dat’s waitin’ de message of peace,

An’ get dem prepare for de journey, we’re proud on de leetle pries’!

O! many dark night w’en de chil’ren is put away safe on de bed

An’ mese’f an’ ma femme mebbe sittin’ an’ watchin’ de small curly head

We hear somet’ing else dan de roar of de tonder, de win’ an’ de rain;

So we’re bote passin’ out on de doorway, an’ lissen an’ lissen again.

An’ it’s lonesome for see de beeg cloud sweepin’ across de sky

An’ lonesome for hear de win’ cryin’ lak somebody’s goin’ to die,

But de soun’ away down de valley, creepin’ aroun’ de hill

All de tam gettin’ closer, closer, dat’s de soun’ mak’ de heart stan’ still!

It’s de bell of de leetle Curé, de music of deat’ we hear,

Along on de black road ringin’, an’ soon it was comin’ near

Wan minute de face of de Curé we see by de lantern light,

An’ he’s gone from us, jus’ lak a shadder, into de stormy night.

An’ de buggy rush down de hill side an’ over de bridge below,

W’ere creek run so high on de spring-tam, w’en mountain t’row off de snow,

An’ so long as we hear heem goin’, we kneel on de floor an’ pray

Dat God will look affer de Curé, an’ de poor soul dat’s passin’ away.

I dunno if he need our prayer, but we geev’ it heem jus’ de sam’,

For w’en a man’s doin’ hees duty lak de Curé do all de tam

Never min’ all de t’ing may happen, no matter he’s riche or poor

Le bon Dieu was up on de heaven, will look out for dat man, I’m sure.

I’m only poor habitant farmer, an’ mebbe know not’ing at all,

But dere’s wan t’ing I’m alway wishin’, an’ dat’s w’en I get de call

For travel de far-away journey, ev’ry wan on de worl’ mus’ go

He’ll be wit’ me de leetle Curé ’fore I’m leffin dis place below.

For I know I’ll be feel more easy, if he’s sittin’ dere by de bed

An’ he’ll geev’ me de good-bye message, an’ place hees han’ on ma head,

Den I’ll hol’ if he’ll only let me, dat han’ till de las’ las’ breat’

An’ bless leetle Fader O’Hara, de Curé of Calumette.

W’AT’S all dem bell a ringin’ for, can hear dem ev’ry w’ere?

W’at’s bring de peop’ togeder on de w’arf at Trois Rivieres,

Dat happy crowd is look so glad, w’y are dey comin’ dere?

O! de reason dey’re so happy w’ile dey’re waitin’ dere to-day

Is becos de oyster schooner she’s sailin’ up de bay

An’ de caraquette an’ malpecque will quickly melt away

Affer she was t’row de anchor on T’ree Reever.

For w’y dey mak’ de fuss lak dat, an’ nearly broke deir neck,

Ain’t dey got de noder oyster more better dan malpecque

Or caraquette, dat leetle wan from down below Kebeck?

Wall! ax de crowd dat question w’ile dey’re waitin’ dere to-day,

So glad to see “La Belle Marie” sailin’ up de bay,

An’ dey’ll drown you on de water, so you’ll know about de way

She was t’rowin’ out de anchor on T’ree Reever.

Dere’s ole Joe Lachapelle, he’s blin’, can hardly see at all,

He’s bring de man got wooden leg call Jimmie Sauriol,

An’ bote dem feller jomp aroun’ lak mooshrat on de fall,

For dey know de schooner’s comin’, she’s sailin’ up de bay,

An’ de reason she don’t hurry w’ile dey’re waitin’ dere to-day,

Is becos she’s full of oyster, will quickly pass away

W’en dat schooner t’row de anchor on T’ree Reever.

We’ve trottin’ race las’ winter, an’ circus on de spring,

Wit’ elephan’ an’ monkey too, all playin’ on de ring,

But beeger crowd she’s comin’ now, for w’y? it’s differen’ t’ing,

For dey’re waitin’ on dat schooner, she’s sailin’ up de bay

Dey smell de malpecque oyster an’ caraquette to-day

An’ O! ba gosh, dey’ll eat dem! it’s alway be de way

W’en dat schooner t’row de anchor on T’ree Reever.

“She’s comin’ in—she’s comin’ in,” jus’ lissen to de cry!

“Get out de line an’ hol’ her fas’, for fear she’s passin’ by,

For if dere’s somet’ing happen now, de peop’ will surely die.”

Affer waitin’ on dat schooner, she’s sailin’ up de bay

Lak de sparrow on de wood-pile watchin’ all de day,

But dey got her safe enough now, she’ll never sail away

Till dem oyster she was finish on T’ree Reever.

“All aboar’—comment câ va, Captinne Beliveau?

We’re glad to see you back again from Caraquette below,

But we’re sorry you don’t hurry, w’en you got such nice car-go.”

So dey ketch dat oyster schooner, she’s sailin’ up de bay,

Dey ketch her an’ dey hol’ her till de oyster’s gone away

An’ she’s two foot out de water “La Belle Marie” nex’ day

Affer she was t’row de anchor on T’ree Reever.

I’M sittin’ to-night on ma leetle cabane, more happier dan de king,

An’ ev’ry corner’s ringin’ out wit’ musique de ole stove sing

I hear de cry of de winter win’, for de storm-gate’s open wide

But I don’t care not’ing for win’ or storm, so long I was safe inside.

Viens ’ci, mon chien, put your head on dere, let your nose res’ on ma knee—

You ’member de tam we chase de moose back on de Lac Souris

An’ de snow come down an’ we los’ ourse’f till mornin’ is bring de light,

You t’ink we got place to sleep, mon chien, lak de place we got here to-night

Onder de roof of de leetle cabane, w’ere fire she’s blazin’ high

An’ bed I mak’ of de spruce tree branch, is lie on de floor close by,

O! I lak de smell of dat nice fresh bed, an’ I dream of de summer tan

An’ de spot w’ere de beeg trout jomp so moche down by de lumber dam.

But lissen dat win’, how she scream outside, mak me t’ink of de loup garou,

W’y to-night, mon chien, I be feelin’ glad if even de carcajou

Don’t ketch hese’f on de trap I set to-day on de Lac Souris

Let heem wait till to-morrow, an’ den if he lak, I geev heem good chance, sapree!

I see beeg cloud w’en I’m out to-day, off on de nor’-eas’ sky,

An’ she block de road, so de cloud behin’, don’t get a chance passin’ by,

An’ I t’ink of boom on de grande riviere, w’en log’s fillin’ up de bay,

Wall! sam’ as de boom on de spring-tam flood, dat cloud she was sweep away.

Dem log’s very nice an’ quiet, so long as de boom’s all right,

But soon as de boom geev way, l’enfant! it’s den is begin de fight.

Dey run de rapide, an’ jomp de rock, dey leap on de air an’ dive,

Can hear dem roar from de reever shore, jus’ lak dey was all alive.

An’ dat was de way wit’ de cloud to-day, de res’ of dem push aside,

For dey’re comin’ fas’ from de cole nor’-eas’ an’ away t’roo de sky dey ride

Shakin’ de snow as along dey go, lak grain from de farmer’s han’

Till to-morrow you can’t see not’ing at all, but smoke of de leetle cabane.

I’m glad we don’t got no chimley, only hole on de roof up dere,

An’ spark fly off on w’ole of de worl’, so dere’s no use gettin’ scare,

Mus’ get more log! an’ it’s lucky too, de wood pile is stannin’ near

So blow away storm, for harder you go, de warmer she’s comin’ here—

I wonder how dey get on, mon chien, off on de great beeg town,

W’ere house is so high, near touch de sky, mus’ be danger of failin’ down.

An’ worser too on de night lak dis, ketchin’ dat terrible win’,

O! leetle small place lak de ole cabane was de right place for stayin’ in.

I s’pose dey got plaintee bodder too, dem feller dat’s be riche man,

For dey’re never knowin’ w’en t’ief may come an’ steal all de t’ing he can

An’ de monee was kip dem busy too, watchin’ it night an’ day,

Dunno but we’re better off here, mon chien, wit’ beeg city far away.

For I look on de corner over dere, an’ see it ma birch canoe,

I look on de wall w’ere ma rifle hang along wit’ de good snowshoe,

An’ ev’ry t’ing else on de worl’ I got, safe on dis place near me.

An’ here you are too, ma brave old dog, wit’ your nose up agen ma knee.

An’ here we be stay t’roo de summer day, w’en ev’ry t’ing’s warm an’ bright

On winter too w’en de stormy win’ blow lak she blow to-night

Let dem stay on de city, on great beeg house, dem feller dat’s be riche man

For we’re happy an’ satisfy here, mon chien, on our own leetle small cabane.

HE’S alway ketchin’ doré, an’ he’s alway ketchin’ trout

  On de place w’ere no wan else can ketch at all

He’s alway ketchin’ barbotte, dat’s w’at you call bull-pout,

  An’ he never miss de wil’ duck on de fall.

O! de pa’tridge do some skippin’ w’en she see heem on de swamp

  For she know Bateese don’t go for not’ing dere,

An’ de rabbit if he’s comin’, wall! you ought to see heem jomp.

  W’y he want to climb de tree he feel so scare.

Affer two hour by de reever I hear hees leetle song

  Den I meet heem all hees pocket full of snipe,

An’ me, I go de sam’ place, an’ I tramp de w’ole day long

  An’ I’m only shootin’ two or t’ree, Ba Cripe!

I start about de sun-rise, an’ I put out ma decoy,

  An’ I see Bateese he sneak along de shore,

An’ before it’s comin’ breakfas’, he’s holler on hees boy

  For carry home two dozen duck or more.

An’ I’m freezin’ on de blin’—me—from four o’clock to nine

  An’ ev’ry duck she’s passin’ up so high.

Dere’s blue-bill an’ butter-ball, an’ red-head, de fines’ kin

  An’ I might as well go shootin’ on de sky.

Don’t see de noder feller lak Bateese was lucky man,

  He can ketch de smartes’ feesh is never sweem,

An’ de bird he seldom miss dem, let dem try de hard dey can

  W’y de eagle on de mountain can’t fly away from heem.

But all de bird, an’ feesh too, is geev’ up feelin’ scare,

  An’ de rabbit he can stay at home in bed,

For he feesh an’ shoot no longer, ole Jean Bateese Belair,

  ’Cos he’s dead.

I OUGHT to feel more satisfy an’ happy dan I be,

  For better husban’ dan ma own, it’s very hard to fin’

An’ plaintee woman if dey got such boy an’ girl as me

  Would never have no troub’ at all, an’ not’ing on deir min’

But w’ile dey’re alway wit’ me, an’ dough I love dem all

  I can’t help t’inkin’ w’en I watch de chil’ren out at play

Of tam I’m just’ lak dat mese’f, an’ den de tear will fall

  For de hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!

It seem so pleasan’ w’en I come off here ten year ago

  An’ hardes’ work I’m gettin’ den, was never heavy load,

De roughes’ place is smoot’ enough, de quickes’ gait is slow

  For glad I am to foller w’ere Louis lead de road

But somet’ing’s comin’ over me, I feel it more an’ more

  It’s alway pullin’ on de heart, an’ stronger ev’ry day,

An’ O! I long to see again de reever an’ de shore

  W’ere de hill of St. Sebastien is lookin’ on de bay!

I use to t’ink it’s fine t’ing once, to stan’ upon de door

  An’ see de great beeg medder dere, stretchin’ far an’ wide,

An’ smell de pleasan’ flower dat grow lak star on de prairie floor,

  An’ watch de spotted antelope was feedin’ ev’ry side,

How did we gain it, man an’ wife, dis lan’ was no man’s lan’?

  By rifle, an’ harrow an’ plow, shovel an’ spade an’ hoe

De blessin’ of good God up above, an’ work of our own strong han’

  Till it stan’ on de middle, our leetle nes’, w’ere de wheat an’ cornfiel’ grow.

An’ soon de chil’ren fill de house, wit’ musique all day long,

  De sam’ ma moder use to sing on de cradle over me,

I’m almos’ sorry it’s be ma fault dey learn dem ole tam song

  W’at good is it tak’ me off lak dat back on ma own contree?

Till de reever once more I see again, an’ lissen its current flow

  An’ dere’s Hercule de ferry man comin’ across de bay!

Wat’s use of foolin’ me lak dat? for surely I mus’ know

  De hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!

W’en Louis ketch me dat summer night watchin’ de sky above,

  Seein’ de mountain an’ de lake, wit’ small boat sailin’ roun’

He kiss me an’ say—“Toinette, I’m glad dis prairie lan’ you love

  For travel de far you can, ma belle, it’s fines’ on top de groun’!”

Jus’ w’en I’m lookin’ dat beeg cloud too, standin’ dere lak a wall!

  Sam’ as de hill I know so well, home on ma own contree,

Good job I was cryin’ quiet den, an’ Louis can’t hear at all

  But I kiss de poor feller an’ laugh, an’ never say not’ing—me.

W’at can you do wit’ man lak dat, an’ w’y am I bodder so?

  De firse t’ing he might fin’ it out, den hees heart will feel it sore

An’ if he say “Come home Toinette,” I’m sure I mus’ answer “No,”

  For if I’m seein’ dat place again, I never return no more!

So let de heart break—I don’t care, I won’t say not’ing—me—

  I’ll mak’ dat promise on mese’f, an’ kip it night an’ day

But O! Mon Dieu! how glad, how glad, an’ happy I could be

  If de hill of St. Sebastien was not so far away!

DIS was de story of boy an’ girl

Dat’s love each oder above de worl’

But it’s not easy job for mak’ l’amour

W’en de girl she’s riche an’ de boy he’s poor

All de sam’ he don’t worry an’ she don’t cry,

But wait for good chances come bimeby.

Young Marie Louise Hurtubuise

Was leev wit’ her moder la veuve Denise

On fines’ house on de w’ole chemin

From Caribou reever to St. Germain

For ole woman’s boss on de grande moulin.

W’ere dere’s nice beeg dam, water all de tam

An’ season t’roo runnin’ jus’ de sam’

Wit’ good leetle creek comin’ off de hill

Was helpin’ de reever for work de mill

So de grande moulin she is never still.

No wonder Denise she was hard to please

W’en de boy come sparkin’ Marie Louise

For affer de foreman Bazile is pay

De mill she’s bringin’ t’ree dollar a day

An’ for makin’ de monee, dat’s easy way.

An’ de girl Marie, O! she’s très jolie,

Jompin’ aroun lak de summer bee

She’s never short plaintee t’ing to do

An’ mebbe she ketch leetle honey too,

’Cos she’s jus’ as sweet as de morning dew.

An’ w’en she was dress on her Sunday bes’

An’ walk wit’ her moder on seconde messe

Dere’s not’ing is bring de young man so fas’

An’ dey stan’ on door of church en masse

So res’ of de peop’ dey can hardly pass.

An’ she know musique, ’cos on Chris’mas week

W’en organ man on de church is sick

(S’pose he got de grippe) dat girl she play

Lak college professor, de pries’ is say

Till de place it was crowd nearly ev’ry day.

Ole Curé Belair of St. Pollinaire,

Dat’s parish ten mile noder side riviere,

If he’s not gettin’ mad, it was funny t’ing

W’en hees young man fly lak bird on de wing

Wit’ nobody lef behin’ to sing.

An’ nex’ t’ing dey know it’s comin’ so

Dat mos’ of de girl she got no beau,

An’ of course dat’s makin’ de jealousie

For w’en de young feller he see Marie

He see not’ing else on hees eye, sapree!

Mus’ be somet’ing done sure as de gun,

It’s all very well for de boy have fun

But dere’s noder t’ing too, mustn’t be forget,

Dere’s two fine parish dat’s all upset

An’ mebbe de troub’ isn’t over yet.

So ev’ry wan say de only way

Is gettin’ young Marie Louise mariée,

Den dey have beeg meetin’ on magasin,

W’ere he sit on de chair Aleck Sanschagrin,

An’ dey ’point heem for go on de grande moulin.

But w’en Aleck come dere for arrange affaire,

Ole Madame Denise she was mak’ heem scare

For jus’ on de minute she see hees face

She know right away all about de case

An’ she tole Bazile t’row heem off de place.

Now de young Bazile he was t’ink good deal

Of Marie Louise an’ he’s ready for keel

Any feller come foolin’ aroun’ de door

So he kick dat man till he’s feelin’ sore,

An’ Aleck he never go back no more.

If it’s true w’at dey say, Joe Boulanger

Was crazy to fight Irish man wan day

W’en he steal all de pork on hees dinner can,

Den it isn’t so very hard onderstan’

Bazile Latour mus’ be darn smart man.

For nobody know de poor feller Joe

W’en he’s come from de grande moulin below

’Cept hees moder, dat’s tole heem mak’ promise sure

Kip off on de mill, an’ Bazile Latour,

(But it’s long before doctor can mak’ heem cure).

Den de ole Denise she was very please,

An’ nex’ day spik wit’ Marie Louise,

“Ma girl, I got de right man for you

If you can only jus’ love heem true,

Bazile dat young feller, I t’ink he’ll do.”

“Wall! Moder he’s poor, Bazile Latour,

But if you t’ink you will lak heem sure

I’ll try an’ feex it mese’f some day

For you’ve been de good moder wit’ me alway”

An’ dat’s w’at Marie Louise she say.

So it’s comin’ right affer all de fight,

An’ de parish don’t see de more finer sight

Dan w’en dey get marry on St. Germain

W’y de buggy she’s pilin’ de w’ole chemin

All de way from de church to de grande moulin.

IS it only twelve mont’ I play de fool,

  You’re sure it’s correc’, ma dear?

I’m glad for hearin’ you spik dat way

  For I t’ink it was twenty year,

Since leffin’ de leetle ole house below,

  I mak’ wit’ ma own two han’

For go on dat fine beeg place, up dere—

  Mon Dieu! I’m de crazy man!

You ’member we’re not very riche, chérie,

  Dat tam we’re beginnin’ life!

Mese’f I’m twenty, an’ you eighteen

  W’en I’m bringin’ you home ma wife,

Many de worry an’ troub’ we got

  An’ some of dem was n’t small,

But not very long dey bodder us

  For we work an’ forget dem all.

An’ you was de savin’ woman too,

  Dere’s nobody beat you dere!

An’ I laugh w’en I t’ink of de tam you go

  Over on Trois Rivieres

For payin’ de bank—you know how moche

  We’re owin’ for dat new place

W’at was he sayin’ de nice young man

  Smilin’ upon hees face.

W’en he got dat monee was all pure gole

  Come down on your familee

For honder year an’ mebbe more?

  “Ma-dame you’re excusin’ me,

But w’ere was you gettin’ dis nice gole coin

  Of Louis Quatorze, hees tam

Wit’ hees face on back of dem ev’ry wan?

  For dey’re purty scase, now Ma-dame?”

An’ you say “Dat’s not’ing at all M’sieu”

  Ma familee get dem t’ing,

I suppose it’s very long tam ago,

  W’en Louis Quatorze is King,

An’ I’m sorry poor feller he’s comin’ dead

  An’ not leevin’ here to-day

’Cos man should be good on hees frien’, M’sieu’

  W’en de monee he mak’ dat way.”

Yass, ev’ry wan know we’re workin’ hard

  An’ savin’ too all dem year,

But nobody see us starve ourse’f

  Dere’s plaintee to eat, don’t fear—

Bimeby our chil’ren dey’re growin’ up

  So we’re doin’ de bes’ we can

Settle dem off on de firse good chance

  An’ geevin’ dem leetle lan’.

An’ den de troub’ is begin to show

  W’en our daughter poor Caroline

She marry dat lawyer on Trois Rivieres

  De beeges’ fool never seen!

Alway come home ev’ry summer sure

  Bringin’ her familee,

All right for de chil’ren, I don’t min’ dem;

  But de husban’! sapree maudit!

I wish I was close ma ear right off

  W’en he talk of our leetle house

Dough I know w’en familee’s comin’ home

  Dere isn’t moche room for a mouse,

He say “Riche man lak youse’f can’t leev’

  On shaintee lak dis below,

W’en t’ousan’ dollar will buil’ fin’ place

  Up on de hill en haut.”

An’ he talk about gallerie all aroun’

  W’ere we sit on de summer night

Watchin’ de star on de sky above

  W’ile de moon she was shinin’ bright,

Could plant some apple-tree dere, also,

  An’ flower, an’ I dunno w’at,

An’ w’en de sun he’s begin to rise

  Look at de view we got!

Den he bring ’noder feller from Trois Rivieres

  An’ show w’at he call de plan

For makin’ dem house on de w’ole contree—

  Mon Dieu! how I hate dat man!

’Cos he’s talkin’ away nearly all de tam

  Lak trotter upon de race—

Wall! affer a w’ile we mak’ our min’

  For havin’ dat nice new place.

So dey go ahead, an’ we let dem go,

  But stuff dey was t’row away;

I’m watchin’ for dat, an’ I save mese’f

  Mebbe twenty-five cent a day,

For you’re surely cheat if you don’t tak’ care

  Very offen we fin’ dat’s true,

An’ affer de house she was finish up,

  We’re geevin’ it nam’ Bellevue.

O! yass, I know we enjoy ourse’f

  W’en our frien’ dey was comin’ roun’

An’ say “Dat’s very fine place you got;

  Dere’s not’ing upon de town,

Or anyw’ere else for honder mile

  Dis house Bellevue can touch,”

An’ den let de horse eat de garden fence

  Non! we don’t enjoy dat so moche.

An’ of course we can’t say not’ing at all

  For it’s not correc’ t’ing you know—

But “Never min’ dat, an’ please come again,

  I’m sorry you got to go.”

Baptême! w’en I’m seein’ beeg feller bus’

  Our two dollar easy chair—

Can’t help it at all, I got to go

  Down on de cellar an’ swear!

An’ w’ere did we leev’ on dat belle maison?

  Wan room an’ de kitchen, dat’s all

An’ plaintee too for de man an’ wife!

  An’ you ’member de tam I fall

Off on de gallerie wan dark night,

  I los’ mese’f tryin’ fin’

De winder dere on de grande parloir,

  For closin’ it up de blin’?

An’ all de tam de poor leetle house

  Is down on de road below,

I t’ink she was jealous dat fine new place

  Up on de hill en haut,

For O! she look lonesome by herse’f

  De winder all broke an’ gone—

No smoke on de chimley comin’ out

  No frien’ stannin’ dere—not wan.

You ’member too, w’en de fever come

  An’ ketch us wan winter day?

W’at he call de shaintee, our son-in-law,

  Dat’s w’ere dey pass away

Xavier, Zoë, an’ Euchariste

  Our chil’ren wan, two, t’ree—

I offen t’ink of de room dey die,

  An’ I can’t help cryin’—me.

So we’ll go on de ole house once again,

  Long enough we been fool lak dis

Never min’ w’at dey say bimeby, ma chere

  But geev me de leetle kiss,

Let dem stay on dat fine new place up dere

  Our daughter an’ son-in-law

For to-morrow soon as de sun will rise

  We’re goin’ back home—Hooraw!

I S’POSE mos’ ev’ry body t’ink hees job’s about de hardes’

  From de boss man on de Gouvernement to poor man on de town

From de curé to de lawyer, an’ de farmer to de school boy

  An’ all the de noder feller was mak’ de worl’ go roun’.

But dere’s wan man got hees han’ full t’roo ev’ry kin’ of wedder

  An’ he’s never sure of not’ing but work an’ work away—

Dat’s de man dey call de doctor, w’en you ketch heem on de contree

  An’ he’s only man I know-me, don’t got no holiday.

If you’re comin’ off de city spen’ de summer-tam among us

  An’ you walk out on de mornin w’en de leetle bird is sing

Mebbe den you see de doctor w’en he’s passin wit’ hees buggy

  An’ you t’ink “Wall! contree doctor mus’ be very pleasan’ t’ing.

“Drivin’ dat way all de summer up an’ down along de reever

  W’ere de nice cool win’ is blowin’ among de maple tree

Den w’en he’s mak’ hees visit, comin’ home before de night tam

  For pass de quiet evening wit’ hees wife an’ familee.”

An’ w’en off across de mountain, some wan’s sick an’ want de doctor

  “Mus’ be fine trip crossin’ over for watch de sun go down

Makin’ all dem purty color lak w’at you call de rainbow,”

  Dat’s way de peop’ is talkin’ was leevin’ on de town.

But it isn’t alway summer on de contree, an’ de doctor

  He could tole you many story of de storm dat he’s been in

How hees coonskin coat come handy, w’en de win’ blow off de reever

  For if she’s sam’ ole reever, she’s not alway sam’ old win’.

An’ de mountain dat’s so quiet w’en de w’ite cloud go a-sailin’

  All about her on de summer w’ere de sheep is feedin’ high

You should see her on December w’en de snow is pilin’ roun’ her

  An’ all de win’ of winter come tearin’ t’roo de sky.

O! le bon Dieu help de doctor w’en de message come to call heem

  From hees warm bed on de night-tam for visit some poor man

Lyin’ sick across de hill side on noder side de reever

  An’ he hear de mountain roarin’ lak de beeg Shawinigan.

Ah! well he know de warning but he can’t stay till de morning

  So he’s hitchin’ up hees leetle horse an’ put heem on burleau

Den w’en he’s feex de buffalo, an’ wissle to hees pony

  Away t’roo storm an’ hurricane de contree doctor go.

O! de small Canadian pony! dat’s de horse can walk de snow-dreef.

  Dat’s de horse can fin’ de road too he’s never been before

Kip your heart up leetle feller, for dere’s many mile before you

  An’ it’s purty hard job tellin’ w’en you see your stable door.

Yass! de doctor he can tole you, if he have de tam for talkin’

  All about de bird was singin’ before de summer lef’

For he’s got dem on hees bureau an’ he’s doin’ it hese’f too

  An’ de las’ tam I was dere, me, I see dem all mese’f.

But about de way he travel t’roo de stormy night of winter

  W’en de rain come on de spring flood, an’ de bridge is wash away

All de hard work, all de danger dat was offen hang aroun’ heem

  Dat’s de tam our contree doctor don’t have very moche to say.

For it’s purty ole, ole story, an’ he alway have it wit’ heem

  Ever since he come among us on parish Saint Mathieu

An’ no doubt he’s feelin’ mebbe jus’ de sam’ as noder feller

  So he rader do hees talkin’ about somet’ing dat was new.

MON frere Camille he was firse class blood

  W’en he come off de State las’ fall,

Wearin’ hees boot a la mode box toe

An’ diamon’ pin on hees shirt also

Sam’ as dem feller on Chi-caw-go;

  But now he’s no blood at all,

                          Camille, mon frere.

W’at’s makin’ dat change on mon frere Camille?

  Wall! lissen for minute or two,

An’ I’ll try feex it up on de leetle song

Dat’s geevin’ some chance kin’ o’ help it along

So wedder I’m right or wedder I’m wrong

  You’ll know all about heem w’en I get t’roo,

                          Mon frere Camille.

He never sen’ letter for t’orteen year

 So of course he mus’ be all right

Till telegraph’s comin’ from Kan-Ka-Kee

“I’m leffin’ dis place on de half pas’ t’ree

W’at you want to bring is de bes’ buggee

  An’ double team sure for me t’orsday night,

                          Ton frere Camille.”

I wish you be dere w’en Camille arrive

  I bet you will say “W’at’s dat?”

For he’s got leetle cap very lak tuque bleu

Ole habitant’s wearin’ in bed, dat’s true,

An’ w’at do you t’ink he carry too?

  Geev it up? Wall! small valise wit’ de fineplug hat,

                          Mon frere Camille.

“Very strange.” I know you will say right off,

  For dere’s not’ing wrong wit’ hees clothes,

An’ he put on style all de bes’ he can

Wit’ diamon’ shinin’ across hees han’

An’ de way he’s talkin’ lak Yankee man

  Mus’ be purty hard on hees nose,

                          Mon frere Camille.

But he ’splain all dat about funny cap,

  An’ tole us de reason w’y,

It seem no feller can travel far,

An’ specially too on de Pullman car,

’Less dey wear leetle cap only cos’ dollarre,

  Dat’s true if he never die,

                          Mon frere Camille.

Don’t look very strong dem fancy boot

  But he’s ’splain all dat also

He say paten’ ledder she’s nice an’ gay

You don’t need to polish dem ev’ry day,

Besides he’s too busy for dat alway,

  W’en he’s leevin’ on Chi-caw-go,

                          Mon frere Camille.

But de State she wasn’t de only place

  He visit all up an’ down,

For he’s goin’ Cu-baw an’ de Mex-i-co,

W’ere he’s killin’ two honder dem wil’ taureau,

W’at you call de bull: on de circus show,

  O! if you believe heem he travel roun’,

                          Mon frere Camille.

So of course w’en ma broder was gettin’ home

  All the peop’ on de parish come

Every night on de parlor for hear heem tell

How he foller de brave Generale Roosvel’

W’en rough rider feller dey fight lak hell

  An’ he walk on de front wit’ great beeg drum,

                          Mon frere Camille.

An’ how is he gainin’ dat diamon’ ring?

  Way off on de Mex-i-co

W’ere he’s pilin’ de bull wan summer day

Till it’s not easy haulin’ dem all away,

An’ de lady dey’re t’rowin’ heem large bouquet

  For dey lak de style he was keel taureau,

                          Mon frere Camille.

Wall! he talk dat way all de winter t’roo,

  An’ hees frien’ dey was tryin’ fin’

Some bull on de county dat’s wil’ enough

For mon frere Camille, but it’s purty tough

’Cos de farmer’s not raisin’ such fightin’ stuff

  An’ he don’t want not’ing but mos’ worse kin’

                          Mon frere Camille.

Dat’s not pleasan’ t’ing mebbe los’ hees trade,

  If we don’t hurry up, for sure,

I s’pose you t’ink I was goin’ it strong?

Never min’, somet’ing happen ’fore very long

It’ll all come out on dis leetle song

  W’en he pass on de house of Ma-dame Latour,

                          Camille, mon frere.

We’re makin’ pique-nique on Denise Latour

  For helpin’ put in de hay

Too bad she’s de moder large familee

An’ los’ de bes’ husban’ she never see

W’en he drown on de reever, poor Jeremie,

  So he come wit’ de res’ of de gang dat day,

                          Camille, mon frere.

An’ affer de hay it was put away

  Don’t tak’ very long at all,

De boy an’ de girl she was lookin’ ’roun’

For havin’ more fun ’fore dey lef’ de groun’

An’ dey see leetle bull, mebbe t’ree honder poun’

  An’ nex’ t’ing I hear dem call

                          Mon frere Camille.

So nice leetle feller I never see

  Dat bull of Ma-dame Latour

Wit’ curly hair on de front hees head

An’ quiet? jus’ sam’ he was almos’ dead

An’ fat? wall! de chil’ren dey see heem fed

  So he’s not goin’ keel heem I’m very sure,

                          Mon frere Camille.

But de girl kip teasin’ an’ ole Ma-dame

  She say, “You can go ahead

He cos’ me four dollarre six mont’ ago

So if anyt’ing happen ma small taureau,

Who’s pay me dat monee I lak to know?”

  An’ he answer, “Dat’s me w’en I keel heem dead”

                          Mon frere Camille.

Den he feex beeg knife on de twelve foot pole,

  So de chil’ren commence to cry

An’ he jomp on de fence, an’ yell, “Hooraw”

An’ shout on de leetle French bull, “Dis donc!

Ain’t you scare w’en you see feller from Cubaw?”

  An’ he show heem hees red necktie,

                          Mon frere Camille.

L’petit taureau w’en he see dat tie

  He holler for half a mile

Den he jomp on de leg an’ he raise de row

Ba Golly! I’m sure I can see heem now.

An’ dey run w’en dey hear heem, de noder cow

  Den he say, “Dat bull must be surely wil’ ”

                          Mon frere Camille.

But de bull don’t care w’at he say at all,

  For he’s watchin’ dat red necktie

An’ w’en ma broder he push de pole

I’m sure it’s makin’ some purty large hole,

If de bull be dere, but ma blood run col’

  For de nex’ t’ing I hear heem cry,

                          Camille, mon frere.

No wonder he cry, for dat sapree bull

  He’s yell leetle bit some more,

Den he ketch ma broder dat small taureau

Only cos’ four dollarre six mont’ ago

An’ he’s t’rowin’ heem up from de groun’ below

  Wan tam, two tam, till he’s feelin’ sore,

                          Camille, mon frere.

An’ w’en ma broder’s come down agen

  I s’pose he mus’ change hees min’

An’ mebbe t’ink if it’s all de sam’

He’ll keel dat bull w’en he get more tam

For dere he was runnin’ wit’ ole Ma-dame

  De chil’ren, de bull, an’ de cow behin’

                          Camille, mon frere.

So dat’s de reason he’s firse class blood

  W’en he come off de State las’ fall

Wearin’ hees boot a la mode box toe

An’ diamon’ pin on hees shirt also

Sam’ as dem feller on Chi-caw-go

  But now he’s no blood at all,

                          Camille, mon frere.

O WHO can blame de winter, never min’ de hard he’s blowin’

  ’Cos w’en de tam is comin’ for passin’ on hees roun’

De firse t’ing he was doin’ is start de sky a snowin’

  An’ mak’ de nice w’ite blanket, for cover up de groun’.

An’ de groun’ she go a’sleepin’ t’roo all de stormy season,

  Restin’ from her work las’ summer, till she’s waken by de rain

Dat le bon Dieu sen’ some morning, an’ of course dat’s be de reason

  Ev’ry year de groun’ she’s lookin’ jus’ as fresh an’ young again.

Den you geev her leetle sunshine, w’en de snow go off an’ leave her

  Let de sout’ win’ blow upon her, an’ you see beeg changes now

Wit’ de steam arisin’ from her jus’ de sam’ she got de fever,

  An’ not many day is passin’ w’en she’s ready for de plow.

We don’t bodder wit’ no spring-tam w’ere de rain she’s alway fallin’,

  Two, t’ree mont’, or mebbe longer, on de place beyon’ de sea,

W’ere some bird he’s nam’ de cuckoo, spen’ de mos’ hees tam a-callin’

  But for fear he wet hees fedder, hide away upon de tree.

On de swamp beside de reever, mebbe jus’ about de fly-tam

  W’ere it’s very hard to see heem, we hear de wo-wa-raw,

Dat’s w’at you call de bull-frog, singin’ “more rum,” all de night-tam.

  He’s only kin’ of cuckoo we got on Canadaw.

No, we haven’t got dat feller, but we got some bird can beat heem,

  An’ we hear dem, an’ we see dem, jus’ so soon de winter go,

So never min’ de cuckoo for we’re not afraid to meet heem,

  W’enever he was ready, wit’ our own petits oiseaux.

An’ dey almos’ come togeder, lak de spring an’ summer wedder,

  Blue-bird wan day, pie-blanche nex’ day, geevin’ out deir leetle note,

Affer dat we see de robin, an’ de gouglou on de medder,

  Den le roi, de red bird’s comin’, dressim on hees sojer coat.

W’en de grosbec on de pine tree, wak’ you early wit’ hees singin’,

  W’en you lissen to de pa’tridge a-beatin’ on hees drum,

W’en de w’ole place roun’ about you wit’ musique is a-ringin’,

  Den you know de winter’s over, an’ de summer day is come.

See de apple blossom showin’, see de clover how it’s growin’

  Watch de trout, an’ way dey’re playin’ on de reever down below,

Ah! de cunning leetle feller, easy see how well dey’re knowin’

  We’re too busy now for ketch dem an’ dat’s w’y dey’re jompin’ so.

For de mos’ fine summer season don’t las’ too long, an’ we know it,

  So we’re workin’ ev’rybody, w’ile de sun is warm an’ clear,

Dat’s de tam for plant de barley, an’ de injun corn we sow it,

  W’en de leaf upon de maple’s jus’ de size of squirrel’s ear.

’Noder job is feexin’ fences, if we don’t be lak de las’ year,

  W’en de Durham bull he’s pullin’ nearly all de fence away,

An’ dat sapree champion taureau let de cattle out de pasture

  So dey’re playin’ on de devil wit’ de oat an’ wit’ de hay.

Yass, de farmer’s offen worry, an’ it sometam mak’ heem snappy,

  For no sooner wan job’s finish, dan he got two t’ousan’ more,

But he’s glad for see de summer, w’en all de worl’ she’s happy,

  An’ ev’ryt’ing aroun’ heem was leevin’ out o’ door.

Now de ole sheep’s takin’ young wan up de hillside, an’ dey feed dem

  W’ere de nice short grass is growin’ sweeter dan it grow below,

Ev’ry morning off dey’re goin’ an’ it’s pleasan’ t’ing to see dem

  Lookin’ jus’ lak leetle snow-ball all along de green coteau.

Dere’s de hen too, wit’ her chicken, O how moche dey mak’ her bodder

  Watchin’ dem mos’ ev’ry minute, fearin’ dey was go astray

But w’en mountain hawk he’s comin’ den how quick dey fin’ de moder

  An’ get onderneat’ her fedder till de danger’s pass away.

An’ jus’ see de turkey gobbler, an’ lissen to heem talkin’

  No wonder he’s half crazee, an’ spikin’ out so loud,

W’en you meet heem on de roadside wit’ hees wife an’ chil’ren walkin’,

  It’s kipin’ heem so busy lookin’ affer such a crowd.

Dat’s about de way we’re leevin’, dat’s a few t’ing we’re seein’,

  W’en de nice warm summer sun is shinin’ down on Canadaw,

An’ no matter w’at I’m hearin’, still I never feel lak bein’

  No oder stranger feller, me, but only habitant.

For dere’s no place lak our own place, don’t care de far you’re goin’

  Dat’s w’at de whole worl’s sayin’, w’enever dey come here,

’Cos we got de fines’ contree, an’ de beeges’ reever flowin’

  An’ le bon Dieu sen’ de sunshine nearly twelve mont’ ev’ry year.

LEETLE Lac Grenier, she’s all alone,

Right on de mountain top,

But cloud sweepin’ by, will fin’ tam to stop

No matter how quickly he want to go,

So he’ll kiss leetle Grenier down below.

Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone,

Up on de mountain high

But she never feel lonesome, ’cos for w’y?

So soon as de winter was gone away

De bird come an’ sing to her ev’ry day.

Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone,

Back on de mountain dere,

But de pine tree an’ spruce stan’ ev’rywhere

Along by de shore, an’ mak’ her warm

For dey kip off de win’ an’ de winter storm.

Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone,

No broder, no sister near,

But de swallow will fly, an’ de beeg moose deer

An’ caribou too, will go long way

To drink de sweet water of Lac Grenier.

Leetle Lac Grenier, I see you now,

Onder de roof of spring

Ma canoe’s afloat, an’ de robin sing,

De lily’s beginnin’ her summer dress,

An’ trout’s wakin’ up from hees long long res’.

Leetle Lac Grenier, I’m happy now,

Out on de ole canoe,

For I’m all alone, ma chere, wit’ you,

An’ if only a nice light rod I had

I’d try dat fish near de lily pad!

Leetle Lac Grenier, O! let me go,

Don’t spik no more,

For your voice is strong lak de rapid’s roar,

An’ you know youse’f I’m too far away,

For visit you now—leetle Lac Grenier!

GO easy wit’ de paddle, an’ steady wit’ de oar

  Geev rudder to de bes’ man you got among de crew,

Let ev’ry wan be quiet, don’t let dem sing no more

  W’en you see de islan’ risin’ out of Grande Lac Manitou.

Above us on de sky dere, de summer cloud may float

  Aroun’ us on de water de ripple never show,

But somet’ing down below us can rock de stronges’ boat,

  W’en we’re comin’ near de islan’ of de spirit Windigo!

De carcajou may breed dere, an’ otter sweem de pool

  De moosh-rat mak’ de mud house, an’ beaver buil’ hees dam

An’ beeges’ Injun hunter on all de Tête de Boule

  Will never set hees trap dere from spring to summer tam.

But he’ll bring de fines’ presen’ from upper St. Maurice

  De loup marin an’ black-fox from off de Hodson Bay

An’ hide dem on de islan’ an’ smoke de pipe of peace

  So Windigo will help heem w’en he travel far away.

We shaintee on dat islan’ on de winter seexty-nine

  If you look you see de clearin’ aroun’ de Coo Coo Cache,

An’ pleasan’ place enough too among de spruce an’ pine

  If foreman on de shaintee isn’t Cyprien Palache.

Beeg feller, alway watchin’ on hees leetle weasel eye,

  De gang dey can’t do not’ing but he see dem purty quick

Wit’ hees “Hi dere, w’at you doin’?” ev’ry tam he’s passin’ by

  An’ de bad word he was usin’, wall! it offen mak’ me sick.

An’ he carry silver w’issle wit’ de chain aroun’ hees neck

  For fear he mebbe los’ it, an’ ev’rybody say

He mus’ buy it from de devil w’en he’s passin’ on Kebeck

  But if it’s true dat story, I dunno how moche he pay.

Dere’s plaintee on de shaintee can sing lak rossignol

  Pat Clancy play de fiddle, an’ Jimmie Charbonneau

Was bring hees concertina from below St. Fereol

  So we get some leetle pleasure till de long, long winter go.

But if we start up singin’ affer supper on de camp

  “Par derriere chez ma tante,” or “Mattawa wishtay,”

De boss he’ll come along den, an’ put heem out de lamp,

  An’ only stop hees swearin’ w’en we all go marche coucher.

We’ve leetle boy dat winter from Po-po-lo-be-lang

  Hees fader an’ hees moder dey’re bote A-ben-a-kee

An’ he’s comin’, Injun Johnnie, wit’ some man de lumber gang

  Was fin’ heem nearly starvin’ above on Lac Souris.

De ole man an’ de woman is tryin’ pass de Soo

  W’en water’s high on spring tam, an’ of course dey’re gettin’ drown’,

For even smartes’ Injun shouldn’t fool wit’ birch canoe,

  W’ere de reever lak toboggan on de hill is runnin’ down.

So dey lef’ de leetle feller all alone away up dere

  Till lumber gang is ketchin’ him an’ bring him on de Cache,

But better if he’s stayin’ wit’ de wolf an’ wit’ de bear

  Dan come an’ tak’ hees chances wit’ Cyprien Palache.

I wonder how he stan’ it, w’y he never run away

  For Cyprien lak neeger he is treat heem all de sam’

An’ if he’s wantin’ Johnnie on de night or on de day

  God help heem if dat w’issle she was below de secon’ tam!

De boy he don’t say not’ing, no wan never see heem cry

  He’s got de Injun in heem, you can see it on de face,

An’ only for us feller an’ de cook, he’ll surely die

  Long before de winter’s over, long before we lef’ de place,

But I see heem hidin’ somet’ing wan morning by de shore

  So firse tam I was passin’ I scrape away de snow

An’ it’s rabbit skin he’s ketchin’ on de swamp de day before,

  Leetle Injun Johnnie’s workin’ on de spirit Windigo.

December’s come in stormy, an’ de snow-dreef fill de road

  Can only see de chimley an’ roof of our cabane,

An’ stronges’ team in stable fin’ it plaintee heavy load

  Haulin’ sleigh an’ two t’ree pine log t’roo de wood an’ beeg savane.

An’ I travel off wan day me, wit’ Cyprien Palache,

  Explorin’ for new timber, w’en de win’ begin to blow,

So we hurry on de snowshoe for de camp on Coo Coo Cache

  If de nor’ eas’ storm is comin’, was de bes’ place we dunno—

An’ we’re gettin’ safe enough dere wit’ de storm close on our heel,

  But w’en our belt we loosen for takin’ off de coat

De foreman commence screamin’ an’ mon Dieu it mak’ us feel

  Lak he got t’ree t’ousan’ devil all fightin’ on hees t’roat.

Cyprien is los’ hees w’issle, Cyprien is los’ hees chain

  Injun Johnnie he mus’ fin’ it, even if de win’ is high

He can never show hese’f on de Coo Coo Cache again

  Till he bring dat silver w’issle an’ de chain it’s hangin’ by.

So he sen’ heem on hees journey never knowin’ he come back

  T’roo de rough an’ stormy wedder, t’roo de pile of dreefin’ snow

“Wat’s de use of bein’ Injun if you can’t smell out de track?”

  Dat’s de way de boss is talkin’, an’ poor Johnnie have to go.

If you want to hear de musique of de nort’ win’ as it blow

  An’ lissen to de hurricane an’ learn de way it sing

An’ feel how small de man is w’en he’s leevin’ here below,

  You should try it on de shaintee w’en she’s doin’ all dem t’ing!

W’at’s dat soun’ lak somet’ing cryin’ all aroun’ us ev’ryw’ere?

  We never hear no tonder upon de winter storm!

Dey’re shoutin’ to each oder dem voices on de air,

  An’ it’s red hot too de stove pipe, but no wan’s feelin’ warm!

“Get out an’ go de woodpile before I freeze to deat’ ”

  Cyprien de boss is yellin’ an’ he’s lookin’ cole an’ w’ite

Lak dead man on de coffin, but no wan go, you bet,

  For if it’s near de woodpile, ’tisn’t close enough to-night!

Non! we ain’t afraid of not’ing, but we don’t lak takin’ chance,

  An’ w’en we hear de spirit of de wil’ A-ben-a-kee

Singin’ war song on de chimley, makin’ all dem Injun dance

  Raisin’ row dere, you don’t ketch us on no woodpile—no siree!

O! de lonesome night we’re passin’ w’ile we’re stayin’ on dat place!

  An’ ev’rybody sheever w’en Jimmie Charbonneau

Say he’s watchin’ on de winder an’ he see de

  Injun face An’ it’s lookin’ so he tole us, jus’ de sam’ as Windigo.

Den again mese’f I’m hearin’ somet’ing callin’, an’ it soun’

  Lak de voice of leetle Johnnie so I’m passin’ on de door

But de pine stump on de clearin’ wit’ de w’ite sheet all aroun’

  Mak’ me t’ink of churchyar’ tombstone, an’ I can’t go dere no more.

Wat’s de reason we’re so quiet w’ile our heart she’s goin’ fas’

  W’y is no wan ax de question? dat we’re all afraid to spik?

Was it wing of flyin’ wil’ bird strek de winder as it pass,

  Or de sweesh of leetle snow-ball w’en de win’ is playin’ trick?

W’en we buil’ de Coo Coo shaintee, she’s as steady as a rock,

  Did you feel de shaintee shakin’ de sam, she’s goin’ to fall?

Dere’s somet’ing on de doorway! an’ now we hear de knock

  An’ up above de hurricane we hear de w’issle call.

Callin’, callin’ lak a bugle, an’ he’s jompin’ up de boss

  From hees warm bed on de corner an’ open wide de door—

Dere’s no use foller affer for Cyprien is los’

  An’ de Coo Coo Cache an’ shaintee he’ll never see no more.

At las’ de morning’s comin’, an’ storm is blow away

  An’ outside on de shaintee young Jimmie Charbonneau

He’s seein’ track of snowshoe, ’bout de size of double sleigh

  Dere’s no mistak’ it’s makin’ by de spirit Windigo.

An’ de leetle Injun Johnnie, he’s all right I onderstan’

  For you’ll fin’ heem up de reever above de Coo Coo Cache

Ketchin’ mink and ketchin’ beaver, an’ he’s growin’ great beeg man

  But dat’s de las’ we’re hearin’ of Cyprien Palache.

OUR fader lef’ ole France behin’, dat’s many year ago,

An’ how we get along since den, wall! ev’ry body know,

Few t’ousan’ firse class familee was only come dat tam,

An’ now we got pure Canayens; t’ree million peop’ bedamme!

Dat’s purty smart beez-nesse, I t’ink we done on Canadaw,

An’ we don’t mak’ no grande hooraw, but do it tranquillement

So if we’re braggin’ now an’ den, we mus’ be excuzay,

For no wan’s never see before de record bus’ dat way.

An’ w’y should we be feel ashame, ’cos we have boy an’ girl?

No matter who was come along, we’ll match agen de worl’;

Wit’ plaintee boy lak w’at we got no danger be afraid,

An’ all de girl she look too nice for never come ole maid.

If we have only small cor-nerre de sam’ we have before

W’en ole Champlain an’ Jacques Cartier firse jomp upon de shore

Dere’s no use hurry den at all, but now you understan’

We got to whoop it up, ba gosh! for occupy de lan’!

W’at’s use de million acre, w’at’s use de belle riviere,

An’ t’ing lak dat if we don’t have somebody leevin’ dere?

W’at’s mak’ de worl’ look out for us, an’ kip de nation free

Unless we’re raisin’ all de tam some fine large familee?

Don’t seem so long we buil’ dat road, Chemin de Pacifique,

Tak’ honder dollar pass on dere, an’ nearly two t’ree week,

Den look dat place it freeze so hard, on w’at you call Klon-dak,

Wall! if we have to fill dem up, we got some large contrac’!

Of course we’re not doin’ bad jus’ now; so ev’rybody say,

But we dunno de half we got on Canadaw to-day,

An’ still she’s comin’ beeger, an’ never mak’ no fuss,

So if we don’t look out, firse t’ing, she’ll get ahead of us.

De more I t’ink, de more I’m scare, de way she grow so fas’,

An’ worse of all it’s hard to say how long de boom’ll las’

But if she don’t go slower an’ ease up leetle bit,

Bimeby de Canayens will be some dead bird on de pit.

Den ev’ry body hip hooraw! an’ sen’ de familee

Along de reever, t’roo de wood, an’ on de grande prairie,

Dat’s only way I’m t’inkin’ arrange de w’ole affaire

An’ mebbe affer w’ile dere won’t be too moche lan’ for spare.

IN dreams of the night I hear the call

  Of wild duck scudding across the lake,

In dreams I see the old convent wall,

  Where Ottawa’s waters surge and break.

But Hercule awakes me ere the sun

  Has painted the eastern skies with gold.

Hercule! true knight of the rod and gun

  As ever lived in the days of old.

“Arise! tho’ the moon hangs high above,

  The sun will soon usher in the day,

And the southerly wind that sportsmen love

  Is blowing across St. Louis Bay.”

The wind is moaning among the trees,

  Along the shore where the shadows lie,

And faintly borne on the fresh’ning breeze

  From yonder point comes the loon’s wild cry

Like diamonds flashing athwart the tide

  The dancing moonbeams quiver and glow,

As out on the deep we swiftly glide

  To our distant Mecca, Ile Perrot.

Ile Perrot far to the southward lies,

  Pointe Claire on the lee we leave behind,

And eager we gaze with longing eyes,

  For faintest sign of the deadly “blind.”

Past the point where Ottawa’s current flows—

  A league from St. Lawrence golden sands—

Out in the bay where the wild grass grows

  We mark the spot where our ambush stands.

We enter it just as the crimson flush

  Of morn illumines the hills with light,

And patiently wait the first mad rush

  Of pinions soaring in airy flight.

A rustle of wings from over there,

  Where all night long on watery bed

The flocks have slept—and the morning air

  Rings with the messenger of lead.

Many a pilgrim from far away

  Many a stranger from distant seas,

Is dying to-day on St. Louis Bay,

  To requiem sung by the southern breeze.

And thus till the sound of the vesper bell

  Comes stealing o’er Ottawa’s dusky stream,

And the ancient light-house we know so well

  Lights up the tide with its friendly gleam.

Then up with the anchor and ply the oar,

  For homeward again our course must bear,

Farewell to the “blind” by Ile Perrot’s shore,

  And welcome the harbor of old Pointe Claire!

I’VE told you many a tale, my child, of the old heroic days

Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze

With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the Mission of Trois Rivieres

But never have I told you yet, of Madeleine Vercheres.

Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily the robin sang

And deep in the forest arches the axe of the woodman rang

Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned farmers met

And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisherman spread his net.

And so through the pleasant season, till the days of October came

When children wrought with their parents, and even the old and lame

With tottering frames and footsteps, their feeble labors lent

At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu himself had sent.

For news there was none of battle, from the forts on the Richelieu

To the gates of the ancient city, where the flag of King Louis flew

All peaceful the skies hung over the seigneurie of Vercheres,

Like the calm that so often cometh, ere the hurricane rends the air.

And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur sailing away,

To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down at Quebec they lay,

But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden Madeleine,

And a necklet of jewels promised her, when home he should come again.

And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless the workmen grew

For the months they seemed a hundred, since the last war-bugle blew.

Ah! little they dreamt on their pillows, the farmers of Vercheres,

That the wolves of the southern forest had scented the harvest fair.

Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers they watch their prey

Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang as they toiled away.

Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the tomahawk leaped out

And the banks of the green St. Lawrence echoed the savage shout.

“Oh mother of Christ have pity,” shrieked the women in despair

“This is no time for praying,” cried the young Madeleine Vercheres,

“Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick to your arms and guns

Fight for your God and country and the lives of the innocent ones.”

And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when beagles press close behind

And the feet that would follow after, must be swift as the prairie wind.

Alas! for the men and women, and little ones that day

For the road it was long and weary, and the fort it was far away.

But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and the palisades drew near,

And soon from the inner gateway the war-bugle rang out clear;

Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note of despair,

’Twas a soldier of France’s challenge, from the young Madeleine Vercheres.

“And this is my little garrison, my brothers Louis and Paul?

With soldiers two—and a cripple? may the Virgin pray for us all.

But we’ve powder and guns in plenty, and we’ll fight to the latest breath

And if need be for God and country, die a brave soldier’s death.

“Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever you sight the foe

Fire from the upper turret, and the loopholes down below.

Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the fight may be fierce and long

And they’ll think our little garrison is more than a hundred strong.”

So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused the Norman blood

That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent it like a flood

Through every heart around her, and they fought the red Iroquois

As fought in the old time battles, the soldiers of Carignan.

And they say the black clouds gathered, and a tempest swept the sky

And the roar of the thunder mingled with the forest tiger’s cry

But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning’s jagged spear

Tore a hole in the night’s dark curtain, and showed them a foeman near.

And the sun rose up in the morning, and the color of blood was he

Gazing down from the heavens on the little company.

“Behold! my friends!” cried the maiden, “ ’tis a warning lest we forget

Though the night saw us do our duty, our work is not finished yet.”

And six days followed each other, and feeble her limbs became

Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the flash of the carabines’ flame

Illumined the powder-smoked faces, aye, even when hope seemed gone

And she only smiled on her comrades, and told them to fight, fight on.

And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo! from the forest black

Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came pealing back

Oh! pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on the morning air,

For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De la Monniere.

And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier of Carignan,

And looked on the little garrison that fought the red Iroquois

And held their own in the battle, for six long weary days,

He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelled at woman’s ways.

Then he beckoned the men behind him and steadily they advance

And with carabines uplifted, the veterans of France

Saluted the brave young Captain so timidly standing there

And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine Vercheres.

And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden Madeleine

God grant that we in Canada may never see again

Such cruel wars and massacres, in waking or in dream

As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in the days of the old régime.

He was stretch heem on de bed an’ he couldn’t raise hees head

  So dey place heem near de winder w’ere he can look below,

An’ watch de schooner lie wit’ her topmas’ on de sky,

  An’ oh! how mad it mak’ heem, ole Captinne Baribeau.

For she’s de fines’ boat dat never was afloat

  From de harbor of St. Simon to de shore of New-fun-lan’

She can almos’ dance a reel, an’ de sea shell on her keel

  Wall! you count dem very easy on de finger of your han’.

But de season’s flyin’ fas’, an’ de fall is nearly pas’

  An’ de leetle “Rose Delima” she’s doin’ not’ing dere

Only pullin’ on her chain, an’ wishin’ once again

  She was w’ere de black fish tumble, an’ jomp upon de air.

But who can tak’ her out, for she’s got de tender mout’

  Lak a trotter on de race-course dat’s mebbe run away

If he’s not jus’ handle so—an’ ole Captinne Baribeau

  Was de only man can sail her, dat’s w’at dey offen say.

An’ now he’s lyin’ dere, w’ere de breeze is blow hees hair

  An’ he’s hearin’ ev’ry morning de “Rose Delima” call,

Sayin’, “Come along wit’ me, an’ we’ll off across de sea,

  For I’m lonesome waitin’ for you, Captinne Paul.

“On Anticosti shore we hear de breaker roar

  An’ reef of Dead Man’s Islan’ too we know,

But we never miss de way, no matter night or day,

  De ‘Rose Delima’ schooner an’ Captinne Baribeau,”

De Captinne cry out den, so de house is shake again,

  “Come here! come here, an’ quickly, ma daughter Virginie,

An’ let me hol’ your han’, for so long as I can stan’

  I’ll tak’ de ‘Rose Delima,’ an’ sail her off to sea.”

“No, no, ma fader dear, you’re better stayin’ here

  Till de cherry show her blossom on de spring,

For de loon he’s flyin’ sout’ an’ de fall is nearly out,

  W’en de wil’ bird of de nort’ is on de wing.

“But fader dear, I know de man can go below

  Wit’ leetle ‘Rose Delima’ on St. Pierre de Miquelon

Hees nam’ is Pierre Guillaume, an’ he’ll bring de schooner home

  Till she’s t’rowin’ out her anchor on de port of St. Simon.”

“Ha! Ha! ma Virginie, it isn’t hard to see

  You lak dat smart young sailor man youse’f,

I s’pose he love you too, but I tole you w’at I do

  W’en I have some leetle talk wit’ heem mese’f.

“So call heem up de stair:” an’ w’en he’s stannin’ dere,

  De Captinne say, “Young feller, you see how sick I be?

De poor ole Baribeau hasn’t very much below

  Beside de ‘Rose Delima,’ an’ hees daughter Virginie.

“An’ I know your fader well, he’s fine man too, Noël,

  An’ hees nam’ was comin’ offen on ma prayer—

An’ if your sailor blood she’s only half as good

  You can sail de ‘Rose Delima’ from here to any w’ere.

“You love ma Virginie? wall! if you promise me

  You bring de leetle schooner safely home

From St. Pierre de Miquelon to de port of St. Simon

  You can marry on ma daughter, Pierre Guillaume.”

An’ Pierre he answer den, “Ma fader was your frien’

  An’ it’s true your daughter Virginie I love,

Dat schooner she’ll come home, or ma nam’ ’s not Pierre Guillaume

  I swear by all de angel up above.”

So de wil’ bird goin’ sout’, see her shake de canvas out,

  An’ soon de “Rose Delima” she’s flyin’ down de bay

An’ poor young Virginie so long as she can see

  Kip watchin’ on dat schooner till at las’ she’s gone away.

Ho! ho! for Gaspé cliff w’en de win’ is blowin’ stiff,

  Ho! ho! for Anticosti w’ere bone of dead man lie!

De sailor cimetière! God help de beeg ship dere

  If dey come too near de islan’ w’en de wave she’s runnin’ high.

It’s locky t’ing he know de way he ought to go

  It’s locky too de star above, he know dem ev’ry wan

For God he mak’ de star, was shinin’ up so far,

  So he trus’ no oder compass, young Pierre of St. Yvonne.

An’ de schooner sail away pas’ Wolf Islan’ an’ Cape Ray—

  W’ere de beeg wave fight each oder roun’ de head of ole Pointe Blanc

Only gettin’ pleasan’ win’, till she tak’ de canvas in

  An’ drop de anchor over on St. Pierre de Miquelon.

We’re glad to see some more, de girl upon de shore,

  An’ Jean Barbette was kipin’ Hotel de Sansouci

He’s also glad we come, ’cos we mak’ de rafter hum;

  An’ w’en we’re stayin’ dere, ma foi! we spen’ de monee free.

But Captinne Pierre Guillaume, might jus’ as well be home,

  For he don’t forget his sweetheart an’ ole man Baribeau,

An’ so he stay on boar’, an’ fifty girl or more

  Less dey haul heem on de bowline, dey couldn’t mak’ heem go.

Wall! we’re workin’ hard an’ fas’, an’ de cargo’s on at las’

  Two honder cask of w’isky, de fines’ on de worl’!

So good-bye to Miquelon, an’ hooraw for St. Simon—

  An’ au revoir to Jean Barbette, an’ don’t forget de girl.

You can hear de schooner sing, w’en she open out her wing

  So glad to feel de slappin’ of de sea wave on her breas’

She didn’t los’ no tam, but travel jus’ de sam’,

  As de small bird w’en he’s flyin’ on de evening to hees nes’.

But her sail’s not blowin’ out wit’ de warm breeze of de sout’

  An’ it’s not too easy tellin’ w’ere de snowflake meet de foam

Stretchin’ out on ev’ry side, all across de Gulf so wide

  W’en de nor’-eas’ win’ is chasin’ de “Rose Delima” home.

An’ we’re flyin’ once again pas’ de Isle of Madeleine

  An’ away for Anticosti we let de schooner go

Lak a race-horse on de track, we could never hol’ her back—

  She mebbe hear heem callin’ her, ole Captinne Baribeau!

But we’re ketchin’ it wan night w’en de star go out of sight

  For de storm dat’s waitin’ for us, come before we know it’s dere—

An’ it blow us near de coas’ w’ere dey leev’ de sailor’s ghos’

  On de shore of Dead Man’s Islan’ till dey almos’ fill de air.

So de Captinne tak’ de wheel, an’ it mak’ de schooner feel

  Jus’ de sam’ as ole man Baribeau is workin’ dere hese’f

Well she know it’s life or deat’, so she’s fightin’ hard for breat’

  For wit’ all dem wave a chokin’ her, it’s leetle she got lef’.

Den de beeges’ sea of all, stannin’ up dere lak a wall

  Come along an’ sweep de leetle “Rose Delima” fore an’ af’

An’ above de storm a cry, “Help, mon Dieu! before I die.”

  An’ dere’s no wan on de wheel house, an’ we hear dem spirit laugh.

Dey’re lookin’ for dead man, an’ dey’re shoutin’ all dey can

  Don’t matter all de pile dey got dey want anoder wan—

An’ now dey’re laughin’ loud, for out of all de crowd

  Dey got no finer sailor boy dan Pierre of St. Yvonne!

But look dere on de wheel! w’at’s dat was seem to steal

  From now’ere, out of not’ing, till it reach de pilot’s place

An’ steer de rudder too, lak de Captinne used to do

  So lak de Captinne’s body, so lak de Captinne’s face.

But well enough we know de poor boy’s gone below,

  W’ere hees bone will join de oder on de place w’ere dead man be—

An’ we only see phantome of young Captinne Pierre Guillaume

  Dat sail de “Rose Delima” all night along de sea.

So we help heem all we can, kip de schooner off de lan’

  W’ere bad spirit work de current dat was pullin’ us inside—

But we fool dem all at las’, an’ we know de danger’s pas’

  W’en de sun come out an’ fin’ us floatin’ on de morning tide.

So de Captinne’s work is done, an’ nex’ day de schooner run

  Wit’ de sail all hangin’ roun’ her, to de port of St. Simon.

Dat’s de way young Pierre Guillaume bring de “Rose Delima” home

  T’roo de wil’ an’ stormy wedder from St. Pierre de Miquelon.

An’ de leetle Virginie never look upon de sea

  Since de tam de “Rose Delima’s” comin’ home,

For she’s lef’ de worl’ an’ all! but behin’ de convent wall

  She don’t forget her fader an’ poor young Pierre Guillaume.

GET along leetle mouse, kick de snow up behin’ you

  For it’s fine winter road we’re travel to-night

Wit’ de moon an’ de star shinin’ up on de sky dere

  W’y it’s almos’ de sam’ as de broad day light.

De bell roun’ your body it’s quick tune dey’re playin’

  But your foot’s kipin’ tam jus’ as steady can be,

Ah! you dance youse’f crazy if only I let you,

  Ma own leetle pony—petite souris.

You ’member w’en firse we be tryin’ for broke you

  An’ Joe Sauvageau bet hees two dollar bill

He can drive you alone by de bridge on de reever

  An’ down near de place w’ere dey got de beeg mill.

An’ it’s new cariole too, is come from St. Felix

  Jo-seph’s only buyin’ it week before,

An’ w’en he is passin’ de road wit’ hees trotter

  Ev’ry body was stan’ on de outside door.

An’ dere he sit, sam’ he don’t care about not’ing

  Hees foot on de dashboar’, hees han’ on de line

Ev’ry dog on de place is come out for barkin’

  An’ all de young boy he was ronnin’ behin’.

Wall! sir, Joe’s put on style leetle soon for hees pleasure

  For w’en de mill w’issle, you jomp lak de cat

An’ nex’ t’ing poor Joe is commencin’ get busy,

  Non! I never see fine run-away lak dat.

’Way go de pony den—’way go de cariole,

  Poor Joe say, “good-bye” on de foot of de hill

An’ all he can see of de sleigh de nex’ morning

  Is jus’ about pay for hees two dollar bill.

Ah! your right nam’ jus’ den should be leetle devil

  An’ not leetle mouse, de sam’ you have now.

Wall! dat’s long ago, an’ you’re gettin’ more quiet

  Since tam you was never done kickin’ de row.

But I’m not very sorry de firse day I see you

  Settle down on de trot lak your fader he get

W’en he beat Sorel Boy on de ice at T’ree Reever

  Bes’ two on t’ree heat, an’ win all de bet.

Your moder she’s come off de Lachapelle stock too

  Ole Canayen blood from Berthier en haut

De bes’ kin’ of horse never look on de halter

  So it isn’t moche wonder you know how to go.

Dat’s church bell we’re off dere on de hillside

  Get along leetle mouse, for we mustn’t be late,

Fin’ your way t’roo de res’ of dem crowdin’ de roadside

  You’ll never get better chance showin’ your gait.

Wall! church is all over, an’ Josephine’s comin’

  For drive wit’ us home on her gran’moder’s house

So tak’ your own tam an’ don’t be on de hurry

  Your slowes’ gait’s quick enough now, leetle mouse.

O I was thine, and thou wert mine, and ours the boundless plain,

Where the winds of the North, my gallant steed, ruffled thy tawny mane,

But the summons hath come with roll of drum, and bugles ringing shrill,

Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the hill.

’Tis the voice of Empire calling, and the children gather fast

From every land where the cross bar floats out from the quivering mast;

So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle swinging free,

And thy hoof-beats shall answer the trumpets blowing across the sea.

Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,

For he who dares to stay our course drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow.

Thy form hath pressed the meadow’s breast, where the sullen grey wolf hides,

The great red river of the North hath cooled thy burning sides;

Together we’ve slept while the tempest swept the Rockies’ glittering chain;

And many a day the bronze centaur hath galloped behind in vain.

But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and the shimmering summer streams

Must vanish forevermore, perchance, into the land of dreams;

For the strong young North hath sent us forth to battlefields far away,

And the trail that ends where Empire trends, is the trail we ride to-day.

But proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,

For he who bars Strathcona’s Horse, drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow.

DE cloud is hide de moon, but dere’s plaintee light above,

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low,

Move de paddle leetle quicker, an’ de ole canoe we’ll shove

      T’roo de water nice an’ quiet

      For de place we’re goin’ try it

      Is beyon’ de silver birch dere

      You can see it lak a church dere

W’en we’re passin’ on de corner w’ere de lily flower grow.

Wasn’t dat correc’ w’at I’m tolin’ you jus’ now?

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low,

Never min’, I’ll watch behin’—me—an’ you can watch de bow

      An’ you’ll see a leetle clearer

      W’en canoe is comin’ nearer—

      Dere she is—now easy, easy,

      For de win’ is gettin’ breezy,

An’ we don’t want not’ing smell us, till de horn begin to blow—

I remember long ago w’en ma fader tak’ me out,

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low,

Jus’ de way I’m takin’ you, sir, hello! was dat a shout?

      Seems to me I t’ink I’m hearin’

      Somet’ing stirrin’ on de clearin’

      W’ere it stan’ de lumber shaintee,

If it’s true, den you’ll have plaintee

Work to do in half a minute, if de moose don’t start to go.

An’ now we’re on de shore, let us hide de ole canoe,

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low,

An’ lie among de rushes, dat’s bes’ t’ing we can do,

      For de ole boy may be closer

      Dan anybody know, sir,

      An’ look out you don’t be shakin’

      Or de bad shot you’ll be makin’

But I’m feelin’ sam’ way too, me, w’en I was young, also—

You ready for de call? here goes for number wan,

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low,

Did you hear how nice I do it, an’ how it travel on

      Till it reach across de reever

      Dat’ll geev’ some moose de fever!

      Wait now, Johnnie, don’t you worry,

      No use bein’ on de hurry,

But lissen for de answer, it’ll come before you know.

For w’y you jomp lak dat? w’at’s matter wit’ your ear?

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low—

Tak’ your finger off de trigger, dat was only bird you hear,

      Can’t you tell de pine tree crickin’

      Or de boule frog w’en he’s spikin’?

      Don’t you know de grey owl singin’

      From de beeg moose w’en he’s ringin’

Out hees challenge on de message your ole gran’fader blow?

You’re lucky boy to-night, wit’ hunter man lak me!

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low—

Can tole you all about it! H-s-ssh! dat’s somet’ing now I see,

      Dere he’s comin’ t’roo de bushes,

      So get down among de rushes,

      Hear heem walk! I t’ink, by tonder,

      He mus’ go near fourteen honder!

Dat’s de feller I been watchin’ all de evening, I dunno.

I’ll geev’ anoder call, jus’ a leetle wan or two,

Steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low—

W’en he see dere’s no wan waitin’ I wonder w’at he’ll do?

      But look out for here he’s comin’

      Sa-pris-ti! ma heart is drummin’!

      You can never get heem nearer

      An’ de moon is shinin’ clearer,

W’at a fine shot you’ll be havin’! now Johnnie let her go!

Bang! bang! you got heem sure! an’ he’ll never run away

Nor feed among de lily on de shore of Wessonneau,

      So dat’s your firse moose, Johnnie! wall! remember all I say—

      Doesn’t matter w’at you’re chasin’,

      Doesn’t matter w’at you’re facin’,

      Only watch de t’ing you’re doin’

      If you don’t, ba gosh! you’re ruin!

An’ steady, Johnnie, steady—kip your head down low.

‟LISTEN, my child,” said the old pine tree to the little one nestling near,

“For the storm clouds troop together to-night, and the wind of the north I hear

And perchance there may come some echo of the music of long ago,

The music that rang when the White Host sang, marching across the snow.”

“Up and away Saint George! up thro’ the mountain gorge,

Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying

Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men,

Follow the trail, tho’ the shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying.”

“Ah! mother,” the little pine tree replied, “you are dreaming again to-night

Of ghostly visions and phantom forms that forever mock your sight.

’Tis true the moan of the winter wind comes to my list’ning ear

But the White Host marching, I cannot see, and their music I cannot hear.”

“When the northern skies were all aflame where the trembling banners swung,

When up in the vaulted heavens the moon of the Snow-Shoe hung,

When the hurricane swept the hillside, and the crested drifts ran high

Those were the nights,” said the old pine tree, “the great White Host marched by.”

And the storm grew fiercer, fiercer, and the snow went hissing past,

But the little pine tree still listened, till she heard above the blast

The music her mother loved to hear in the nights of the long ago

And saw in the forest the white-clad Host marching across the snow.

And loud they sang as they tramped along of the glorious bygone days

When valley and hill re-echoed the snow-shoer’s hymn of praise

Till the shy moon gazed down smiling, and the north wind paused to hear

And the old pine tree felt young again as the little one nestling near.

“Up and away Saint George! up thro’ the mountain gorge.

Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying.

Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men.

Follow the trail, tho’ the shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying.”

YOU bad leetle boy, not moche you care

How busy you’re kipin’ your poor gran’pere

Tryin’ to stop you ev’ry day

Chasin’ de hen aroun’ de hay—

W’y don’t you geev’ dem a chance to lay?

                                  Leetle Bateese!

Off on de fiel’ you foller de plough

Den w’en you’re tire you scare de cow

Sickin’ de dog till dey jomp de wall

So de milk ain’t good for not’ing at all—

An’ you’re only five an’ a half dis fall,

                                  Leetle Bateese!

Too sleepy for sayin’ de prayer to-night?

Never min’ I s’pose it’ll be all right

Say dem to-morrow—ah! dere he go!

Fas’ asleep in a minute or so—

An’ he’ll stay lak dat till de rooster crow,

                                  Leetle Bateese!

Den wake us up right away toute suite

Lookin’ for somet’ing more to eat,

Makin’ me t’ink of dem long leg crane

Soon as dey swaller, dey start again,

I wonder your stomach don’t get no pain,

                                Leetle Bateese!

But see heem now lyin’ dere in bed,

Look at de arm onderneat’ hees head;

If he grow lak dat till he’s twenty year

I bet he’ll be stronger dan Louis Cyr

An’ beat all de voyageurs leevin’ here,

                                Leetle Bateese!

Jus’ feel de muscle along hees back,

Won’t geev’ heem moche bodder for carry pack

On de long portage, any size canoe,

Dere’s not many t’ing dat boy won’t do

For he’s got double-joint on hees body too,

                                Leetle Bateese!

But leetle Bateese! please don’t forget

We rader you’re stayin’ de small boy yet,

So chase de chicken an’ mak’ dem scare

An’ do w’at you lak wit’ your ole gran’pere

For w’en you’re beeg feller he won’t be dere—

                                Leetle Bateese!

DONAL’ CAMPBELL—Donal’ Bane—sailed away across the ocean

With the tartans of Clan Gordon, to the Indies’ distant shore,

But on Dargai’s lonely hillside, Donal’ Campbell met the foeman,

And the glen of Athol Moray will never see him more!

O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of bitter sorrow

Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro’ Athol Moray’s glen

When the black word reached the clansmen, that young Donal’ Bane had fallen

In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant Gordon men!

Far from home and native sheiling, with the sun of India o’er him

Blazing down its cruel hatred on the white-faced men below

Stood young Donal’ with his comrades, like the hound of ghostly Fingal

Eager, waiting for the summons to leap upagainst the foe—

Hark! at last! the pipes are pealing out the welcome Caber Feidh

And wild the red blood rushes thro’ every Highland vein

They breathe the breath of battle, the children of the Gael,

And fiercely up the hillside, they charge and charge again—

And the grey eye of the Highlands, now is dark as blackest midnight,

The history of their fathers is written on each face,

Of border creach and foray, of never yielding conflict

Of all the memories shrouding a stern unconquered race!

And up the hillside, up the mountain, while the war-pipes shrilly clamour

Bayonet thrusting, broadsword cleaving, the Northern soldiers fought

Till the sun of India saw them victors o’er the dusky foemen,

For who can stay the Celtic hand when Celtic blood is hot?

But the corse of many a clansman from the far-off Scottish Highlands

’Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying cold and still

With the death-dew on its forehead, and young Donal’ Campbell’s tartan

Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heather of the hill!

Mourn him! Mourn him thro’ the mountains, wail him women of Clan Campbell!

Let the Coronach be sounded till it reach the Indian shore

For your beautiful has fallen in the foremost of the battle

And the glen of Athol Moray will never see him more.

HERE’S to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an’ slainté galore.

You’re a dacint ould man, begorra; never mind if you are a Boer.

So with heart an’ a half ma bouchal, we’ll drink to your health to-night

For yourself an’ your farmer sojers gave us a damn good fight.

I was dramin’ of Kitty Farrell, away in the Gap o’ Dunloe,

When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin’ across Glencoe;

An’ once in a while a bullet came pattherin’ from above,

That tould us the big brown fellows were sendin’ us down their love.

’Twas a kind of an invitation, an’ written in such a han’

That a Chinaman couldn’t refuse it—not to spake of an Irishman.

So the pickets sent back an answer. “We’re comin’ with right good will,”

Along what they call the kopje, tho’ to me it looked more like a hill.

“Fall in on the left,” sez the captain, “my men of the Fusiliers;

You’ll see a great fight this morning—like you haven’t beheld for years.”

“Faith, captain dear,” sez the sergeant, “you can bet your Majuba sword

If the Dutch is as willin’ as we are, you never spoke truer word.”

So we scrambled among the bushes, the bowlders an’ rocks an’ all,

Like the gauger’s men still-huntin’ on the mountains of Donegal;

We doubled an’ turned an’ twisted the same as a hunted hare,

While the big guns peppered each other over us in the air.

Like steam from the divil’s kettle the kopje was bilin’ hot,

For the breeze of the Dutchman’s bullets was the only breeze we got;

An’ many a fine boy stumbled, many a brave lad died,

When the Dutchman’s message caught him there on the mountainside.

Little Nelly O’Brien, God help her! over there at ould Ballybay,

Will wait for a Transvaal letter till her face an’ her hair is grey,

For I seen young Crohoore on a stretcher, an’ I knew the poor boy was gone

When I spoke to the ambulance doctor, an’ he nodded an’ then passed on.

“Steady there!” cried the captain, “we must halt for a moment here.”

An’ he spoke like a man in trainin’, full winded an’ strong an’ clear.

So we threw ourselves down on the kopje, weary an’ tired as death,

Waitin’ the captain’s orders, waitin’ to get a breath.

It’s strange all the humors an’ fancies that comes to a man like me;

But the smoke of the battle risin’ took me across the sea—

It’s the mist of Benbo I’m seein’; an’ the rock that we’ll capture soon

Is the rock where I shot the eagle, when I was a small gossoon.

I close my eyes for a minute, an’ hear my poor mother say,

“Patrick, avick, my darlin’, you’re surely not goin’ away

To join the red-coated sojers?”—but the blood in me was strong—

If your sire was a Connaught Ranger, sure where would his son belong?

Hark! whisht! do you hear the music comin’ up from the camp below?

An’ odd note or two when the Maxims take breath for a second or so,

Liftin’ itself on somehow, stealin’ its way up here,

Knowin’ there’s waitin’ to hear it, many an Irish ear.

Augh! Garryowen! you’re the jewel! an’ we charged on the Dutchman’s guns,

An’ covered the bloody kopje, like a Galway greyhound runs,

At the top of the hill they met us, with faces all set and grim;

But they couldn’t take the bayonet—that’s the trouble with most of thim.

So of course, they’ll be praisin’ the Royals an’ men of the Fusiliers,

An’ the newspapers help to dry up the widows’ an’ orphans’ tears,

An’ they’ll write a new name on the colors—that is, if there’s room for more

An’ we’ll follow them thro’ the battle, the same as we’ve done before.

But here’s to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an’ slainté galore.

After all, your’re a dacint Christian, never mind if you are a Boer.

So with heart an’ a half, ma bouchal, we’ll drink to your health to-night,

For yourself an’ your brown-faced Dutchmen gave us a damn good fight.

BORD à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W’at do I see w’en I dream of you?

A shore w’ere de water is racin’ by,

A small boy lookin’, an’ wonderin’ w’y

He can’t get fedder for goin’ fly

Lak de hawk makin’ ring on de summer sky,

        Dat’s w’at I see.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W’at do I hear w’en I dream of you?

Too many t’ing for sleepin’ well!

De song of de ole tam cariole bell,

De voice of dat girl from Sainte Angèle

(I geev’ her a ring was mark “fidèle”)

          Dat’s w’at I hear.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W’at do I smoke w’en I dream of you?

Havana cigar from across de sea,

An’ get dem for not’ing too? No siree!

Dere’s only wan kin’ of tabac for me.

An’ it grow on de Rivière des Prairies—

          Dat’s w’at I smoke.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

How do I feel w’en I t’ink of you?

Sick, sick for de ole place way back dere—

An’ to sleep on ma own leetle room upstair

W’ere de ghos’ on de chimley mak’ me scare

I’d geev’ more monee dan I can spare—

          Dat’s how I feel.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W’at will I do w’en I’m back wit’ you?

I’ll buy de farm of Bonhomme Martel,

Long tam he’s been waitin’ a chance to sell,

Den pass de nex’ morning on Sainte Angèle,

An’ if she’s not marry—dat girl—very well,

          Dat’s w’at I’ll do.

I KNOW very well ’twas purty hard case

If dere’s not on de worl’ some beeger place

Dan village of Cote St. Paul,

But we got mebbe sixty-five house or more

Wit’ de blacksmit’ shop an’ two fine store

Not to speak of de church an’ de city hall.

An’ of course on village lak dat you fin’

Some very nice girl if you have a min’

To look aroun’, an’ we got dem too—

But de fines’ of all never wear a ring,

Since firse I’m t’inkin’ of all dem t’ing,

Was daughter of ole Narcisse Beaulieu.

Narcisse he’s bedeau on de beeg church dere,

He also look affer de presbytere,

An’ leev on de house close by,

On Sunday he’s watchin’ de leetle boys,

Stoppin’ dem kickin’ up too much noise,

An’ he bury de peop’ w’en dey’re comin’ die.

So dat’s w’at he do, Narcisse Beaulieu,

An’ it’s not very easy I’m tolin’ you,

But a purty large heavy load,

For on summer de cow she was run aroun’

An’ eat all de flower on de Curé’s groun’

An’ before he can ketch her, p-s-s-t! she’s down de road.

Dat’s not’ing at all, for w’en winter come

Narcisse got plaintee more work ba gum!

Shovellin’ snow till hees back was sore,

Makin’ some track for de horse an’ sleigh,

Kipin’ look out dey don’t run away,

An’ freezin’ outside on de double door.

But w’enever de vault on de church is fill

Wit’ de peop’ was waitin’ down dere ontil

Dey can go on de cimetière,

For fear dem student will come aroun’

An’ tak’ de poor dead folk off to town

Narcisse offen watch for dem all night dere.

An’ de girl Josephine she’s her fader’s pet,

He never see nobody lak her yet,

So w’en he’s goin’ on St. Jerome

For travel about on some leetle tour

An’ lef’ her alone on de house, I’m sure

De house she’s all right w’en he’s comin’ home.

Wall! nearly t’ree year is come an’ go,

De quietes’ year de village know,

For dem student don’t show hees face,

An’ de peop’ is beginnin’ to ax w’at for

Dey’re alway goin’ on Ile Bizard

An’ never pass on our place.

But it’s bully tam for de ole Narcisse,

An’ w’en he’s lettin’ heem go de pries’

For stay away two t’ree day

He t’ink of course it was purty good chance,

So he buy heem new coat an’ pair of pants,

An’ go see hees frien’ noder side de bay.

An’ dat very sam’ night, ba gosh! it seem

De girl’s not dreamin’ some pleasan’ dream

For she visit de worse place never seen

Down on T’ree Reever, an’ near Kebeck

W’ere robber-man’s chokin’ her on de neck—

De poor leetle Josephine!

So she’s risin’ up den and she tak’ de gun

An’ off on de winder she quickly run

For fear she might need a shot

An’ dem student he’s comin’ across de square

Right on de front of de cimetière

An’ carryin’ somet’ing—you know w’at!

So she’s takin’ good aim on de beeges’ man

An’ pull de trigger de hard she can,

An’ he’s yellin’ an’ down he go,

Hees frien’ dey say not’ing, but clear out quick,

Dat’s way Josephine she was playin’ trick

On feller was treatin’ poor dead folk so!

Den she kick up a row an’ begin to feel

Very sorry right off for de boy she keel

An’ de nex’ t’ing she’s startin’ cry

An’ call on her fader an’ moder too,

Poor leetle Josephine Beaulieu,

An’ wishin’ she’d lak to die.

But she didn’t die den, an’ he’s leevin’ yet—

Dat feller was comin’ so near hees deat’—

For she’s nursin’ heem back to life,

Dey’re feexin’ it someway, I dunno how,

But dey’re marry an’ leev’ in de city now

An’ she’s makin’ heem firse class wife.

An’ Narcisse hese’f he was alway say,

“It’s fonny t’ing how it come dat way

But I’m not very sorry at all,

’Course I know ma son he’s not doin’ right,

But man he was haulin’ aroun’ dat night

Is worse ole miser on Cote St. Paul.”

O MEMORY, take my hand to-day

  And lead me thro’ the darkened bridge

Washed by the wild Atlantic spray

  And spanning many a wind-swept ridge

Of sorrow, grief, of love and joy,

  Of youthful hopes and manly fears!

  O! let me cross the bridge of years

And see myself again a boy!

The shadows pass—I see the light,

  O morning light, how clear and strong!

My native skies are smiling bright,

  No more I grope my way along,

It comes, the murmur of the tide

  Upon my ear—I hear the cry

  Of wandering sea birds as they fly

In trooping squadrons far and near.

The breeze that blows o’er Mullaghmore

  I feel against my boyish cheek

The white-walled huts that strew the shore

  From Castlegal to old Belleek,

The fisher folk of Donegal,

  Kindly of heart and strong of arm,

  Who plough the ocean’s treacherous farm,

How plainly I behold them all!

The thrush’s song, the blackbird’s note,

  The wren within the hawthorn hedge,

The robin’s swelling vibrant throat,

  The leveret crouching in the sedge!

In those dear days, ah! what was school?

  When Nature made our pulses thrill!

  The lessons we remember still

Were learnt at Nature’s own footstool!

“The hounds are out! the beagles chase

  Along the slopes of Tawley’s plain!”

I rise and follow in the race

  Till fox, or hare, or both are slain,

With heart ablaze, I loose the reins

  Of all my childish fierce desire,

  My faith! ’tis Ireland plants the fire

And iron in her children’s veins!

The mountain linnet whistles sweet

  Among the gorse of summer-time,

As up the hill with eager feet

  The sun of morning sees me climb

Until at last I sink to rest

  Where heatherbells swing to the tune

  That Benbo breezes softly croon—

A tired child on the mother’s breast!

And now in wisdom’s riper years,

  Ah, wisdom! what a price we pay

Of sorrow, grief, of smiles and tears,

  Before we reach that wiser day!

We meet to greet in joy and mirth

  The white-haired parent of us all

  Our childhood’s memories to recall

And bless the land that gave us birth.

O I’M very very tire Marie,

  I wonder if I’m able hol’ a gun

An’ me dat’s alway risin’ wit de sun

An’ travel on de water, an’ paddle ma canoe

An’ trap de mink an’ beaver de fall an’ winter t’roo,

But now I t’ink dat fun is gone forever.

Wall! I’m mebbe stayin’ long enough,

  For eighty-four I see it on de spring;

Dough ma fader he was feelin’ purty tough

  An’ at ninety year can do mos’ ev’ry t’ing,

But I never know de feller, don’t care how ole he come,

Dat isn’t sure to t’ink he’s got anoder year, ba gum!

Before he lif’ de anchor for de las’ tam!

It’s not so easy lyin’ on de bed,

  An’ lissen to de wil’ bird on de bay,

Dey know dat poor Bateese is nearly dead,

  Or dey wouldn’t have such good fun ev’ry day!

Put ma gun upon de piller near de winder, jus’ for luck,

Den bring w’ere I can see dem, ma own nice leetle duck

So I have some talk wit’ dem mese’f dis morning.

Ah! dere you’re comin’ now! mes beaux canards!

  Dat’s very pleasan’ day, an’ how you feel?

Of course you dunno w’at I want you for,

  Wall! lately I’ve been t’inkin’ a good deal

Of all de fuss I’m havin’ show you w’at you ought to do

W’en de cole win’ of October de blin’ is blowing t’roo

An’ de bluebill’s flyin’ up an’ down de reever.

O! de bodder I’m havin’ wit’ you all!

  It’s makin’ me feel ole before ma tam!

Stan’ over dere upon de right again de wall,

  Ma-dame Lapointe—I’m geevin’ you Madame

’Cos you walk aroun’ de sam’ way as ma cousin Aurelie

An’ lak youse’f she’s havin’ de large large familee,

Now let us see you don’t forget your lesson!

Qu-a-a-ck! you’re leetle hoarse to-day, don’t you t’ink?

  Quack! quack! quack! dat’s right Mamzelle Louise!

You go lak dat, an’ quicker dan a wink,

  It’ll ring across de lake along de breeze,

Till de wil’ bird dey will lissen up de reever far an’ near,

An’ tole de noder wan too, de musique dey was hear

An’ dey’ll fly aroun’ our head before we know it.

Come here, François, an’ min’ you watch youse’f!

  You can’t forget de las’ day we was out,

Your breat’ dere’s very leetle of it lef’

  An’ I tole you it was better shut your mout’

W’en you start dat fancy yellin’, for it soun’ de sam’ to me

Lak de devil he was goin’ on de beeges’ kin’ of spree,

François! dat’s not de way for mak’ de shootin’!

Wan—two—t’ree,—now let us hear you please,

  It isn’t very hard job if you try,

Purten’ you’re feelin’ lonesome lak Louise

  An’ want to see de sweetheart bimeby,

Quack! quack! quack!

O! stop dat screechin’, don’t never spik no more

For if anyt’ing, sapree, tonnerre! you’re worser dan before,

I wonder w’at you do wit’ all your schoolin’!

Come out from onderneat’ de bed, Lisette,

  I believe you was de fattes’ of de lot;

It’s handy too of course, for you never feel de wet,

  An’ w’en you lak to try it, O! w’at a voice you got!

So let us play it’s blowin’ hard, an’ duck is up de win’

An’ you want to reach dem—sure—now we’re ready for begin,

Hooraw! an’ never min’ de noise dat you’re makin’.

Quack! quack! quack! quack! O! let me tak’ de gun

  For I wouldn’t be astonish w’en Lisette is get de start,

Roun’ de house dey’ll come a-flyin’, an’ den we’ll have de fun!

  Yass, yass, kip up de flappin’, O! ain’t she got de heart!

Not many duck can beat her, an’ I wish I had some more,

Can mak’ de song lak dat upon de water!

Dat’s very funny how it ketch de crowd!

  An’ now dey’re goin’ all de younger wan!

But if you don’t stop singin’ out so loud,

  I’m sorry I mus’ tole you all begone,

’Cos I want to go to sleep, for I’m very, very tire,

An’ de shiver’s comin’ on me! so Marie poke up de fire

An’ mebbe I’ll feel better on de morning.

De leetle duck may call on de spring tam an’ de fall

W’en dey see de wil’ bird flyin’ on de air

Dey may cry aroun’ hees door, but he’ll never come no more

For showin’ dem de lesson! ole Jean Bateese Belair.

‟O MA ole canoe! w’at’s matter wit’ you, an’ w’y was you be so slow?

Don’t I work hard enough on de paddle, an’ still you don’t seem to go—

No win’ at all on de fronte side, an’ current she don’t be strong,

Den w’y are you lak lazy feller, too sleepy for move along?

“I ’member de tam w’en you jomp de sam’ as deer wit’ de wolf behin’

An’ brochet on de top de water, you scare heem mos’ off hees min’;

But fish don’t care for you now at all, only jus’ mebbe wink de eye,

For he know it’s easy git out de way w’en you was a passin’ by.”

I’m spikin’ dis way jus’ de oder day w’en I’m out wit’ de ole canoe,

Crossin’ de point w’ere I see las’ fall wan very beeg caribou,

W’en somebody say, “Phil-o-rum, mon vieux, wat’s matter wit’ you youse’f?”

An’ who do you s’pose was talkin’? w’y de poor ole canoe shese’f.

O yass, I’m scare w’en I’m sittin’ dere, an’ she’s callin’ ma nam’ dat way:

“Phil-o-rum Juneau, w’y you spik so moche, you’re off on de head to-day

Can’t be you forget ole feller, you an’ me we’re not too young,

An’ if I’m lookin’ so ole lak you, I t’ink I will close ma tongue.

“You should feel ashame; for you’re alway blame, w’en it isn’t ma fault at all

For I’m tryin’ to do bes’ I can for you on summer-tam, spring, an’ fall.

How offen you drown on de reever if I’m not lookin’ out for you

W’en you’re takin’ too moche on de w’isky some night comin’ down de Soo.

“De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau no feller can beat us den,

For you’re purty strong man wit’ de paddle, but dat’s long ago ma frien’,

An’ win’ she can blow off de mountain, an’ tonder an’ rain may come,

But camp see us bote on de evening—you know dat was true Phil-o-rum.

“An’ who’s your horse too, but your ole canoe, an’ w’en you feel cole an’ wet

Who was your house w’en I’m upside down an’ onder de roof you get,

Wit’ rain ronnin’ down ma back, Baptême! till I’m gettin’ de rheumateez,

An’ I never say not’ing at all, moi-même, but let you do jus’ you please.

“You t’ink it was right, kip me out all night on reever side down below,

An’ even ‘Bon Soir’ you was never say, but off on de camp you go

Leffin’ your poor ole canoe behin’ lyin’ dere on de groun’

Watchin’ de moon on de water, an’ de bat flyin’ all aroun’.

“O! dat’s lonesome t’ing hear de grey owl sing up on de beeg pine tree

An’ many long night she kip me awake till sun on de eas’ I see,

An’ den you come down on de morning for start on some more voyage.

An’ only t’ing decen’ you do all day is carry me on portage.

“Dat’s way Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she come, wit’ pain ronnin’ t’roo ma side

Wan leetle hole here, noder beeg wan dere, dat not’ing can never hide;

Don’t do any good fix me up agen, no matter how moche you try,

For w’en we come ole an’ our work she’s done, bote man an’ canoe mus’ die.”

Wall! she talk dat way mebbe mos’ de day, till we’re passin’ some beaver dam

An’ wan de young beaver he’s mak’ hees tail come down on de water flam!

I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly two, t’ree feet

I t’ink she was goin’ for ronne away, an’ she shut up de mout’ toute suite.

It mak’ me feel queer, de strange t’ing I hear, an’ I’m glad she don’t spik no more,

But soon as we fin’ ourse’f arrive over dere on de noder shore

I tak’ dat canoe lak de lady, an’ carry her off wit’ me,

For I’m sorry de way I treat her, an’ she know more dan me, sapree!

Yass! dat’s smart canoe, an’ I know it’s true, w’at she’s spikin’ wit’ me dat day,

I’m not de young feller I use to be w’en work she was only play;

An’ I know I was comin’ closer on place w’ere I mus’ tak’ care

W’ere de mos’ worse current’s de las’ wan too, de current of Dead Riviere.

You can only steer, an’ if rock be near, wit’ wave dashin’ all aroun’,

Better mak’ leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere some very smart man get drown;

But if you be locky an’ watch youse’f, mebbe reever won’t seem so wide,

An’ firse t’ing you know you’ll ronne ashore, safe on de noder side.

DERE’S a beeg jam up de reever, w’ere rapide is runnin’ fas’,

  An’ de log we cut las’ winter is takin’ it all de room;

So boss of de gang is swearin’, for not’ing at all can pass

  An’ float away down de current till somebody break de boom.

“Here’s for de man will tak’ de job, holiday for a week